The Windweeper

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Table of Contents WINDWEEPER 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 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 PART III: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Epilogue Amber Quill Press, LLC

THE WINDLEGENDS SAGA BOOK III

WINDWEEPER by CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO

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

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

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

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2002 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo ISBN 1-59279-030-5 Cover Art © 2002 Trace Edward Zaber Rating: R Layout and Formatting Provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com

Published in the United States of America

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo At Grandma's Knee

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

The WindLegend's Saga

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

Dedication

To Tamara McHatton: The bestest editor in the neighborhood. I couldn't have done it without you, Lady!

PART I: Chapter 1 He was in the depths of a nightmare and the dream was hurting him. A moan came from deep within his throat; his eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids. His blond hair thrashed on the pillow; a fine, oozing, pebbled sweat drenched him. His hands gathered the coverlet in a tight grip, while his restless legs kicked at the covers weighing him down. Liza watched, her green gaze sweeping over the dear planes of his handsome face. Gently shaking him, she called her husband's name, but he didn't wake. She softly called him once more and he turned away from her, tightly hugging the pillow to his chest. There was an horrific clap of thunder. The window glowed as another loud boom shook the panes and rain began to pelt the keep. She moved closer to him, wedging herself behind his shoulder, putting an arm around his waist. "Conar?" she whimpered as another shriek of lightning speared the ground. Storms frightened her, and her heart raced beneath her ribcage. She called out to him again. He couldn't hear her. The sound of rain lashing the windows only added to his nightmare. He buried his face in the pillow and dreamed on: She was running to him, her face stricken with terror and vulnerability. Her white gown floated behind her in the draft of unseen wind, and the windows behind her—down the long corridor—flared with light and lit her body through the gown. Screaming as lightning streaked across the firmament, she held out her arms, rushed into his embrace, burying her face in the white silk of his shirt. His arms went about her as he whispered her name. Her hands raked at his waist as she plastered herself against him. He whispered her name, lifted her in his arms, then gently cradled her as he took her to his bed. In the tempest of the storm, he took her, soothed her, promised her his heart. "Conar, please!" Liza moaned as she tried to wake him. She trembled with fear; her lids squeezed shut to blot out the flares of lightning. "Conar, wake up! I'm afraid, Milord!" Rain swept against the window of the room in which they lay, but he heard their soft moans of pleasure as sexual release came and went. He saw their sweat-dampened faces, their smiles, heard her sweet words of trust and his

fervent words of love, and he knew the exact moment she conceived his child. Conar groaned. He gripped the pillow so hard the seam split. He didn't feel the woman clinging to him, didn't hear her frightened pleading. He was lost in his nightmare, hearing another man's words of love to his wife, feeling that man's pleasure at knowing she would have his child. He groaned again and went deeper into the nightmare. He was alone this time. He could no longer see his wife and her lover as they strained against one another in the big bed at Ivor Keep. Now, he was walking along a black sand beach stretching for miles away from him. Beneath his feet, volcanic rock crunched; thunderclouds hovered over the tops of the distant snow-capped mountains and rumbled a warning. The sky was lowering to the metallic gray of the approaching storm and streaks of yellow washed across the horizon as the wind, wild and hot, blew over him, tousling his hair. He heard seagulls careening overhead. They seemed to be mocking him with taunting cries: "Come and see, Conar. Come and see!" Looking at them, he saw their beady black eyes regard him with contempt for intruding on their domain. They swooped over him, around him, landing in the crashing, angry waves that washed over his bare feet, soaking his breeches. He stumbled in the sucking draw of the water as the ground gave way. The gulls chorlted at his solitude and loneliness as the undertow sought to drag him into the swirling, churning ocean depths. Ahead of him, in the breakwater, he saw a dark mass lying in the waves. The closer he came, the harder it was for him to move his feet. A chill shot through him and he walked like a condemned man toward what lay before him. "Come and see, Conar. Come and see!" the gulls taunted once more. He flinched at the evil he saw in their feathered faces. When at last he could see what formed the dark mass in the breaking waves, his heart felt as though it would break. He tried to turn away, but found he could not; nor could he blink or close his eyes to blot out what he was seeing. A moan of unbearable hurt made its way out of his very soul. He stood helpless in the churning waves and watched the scene unfold. "Conar, please, wake up!" Liza cried, her hands shaking his shoulders. She heard him moan, felt him tense, but he did not answer. She plastered her body as close to his as she could, but still he did not wake. It was Brelan Saur lying with Liza in the sweep of the breaking waves, his lean, taut body completely covering hers. Her long black hair undulated in the moving water as it washed over her and her lover. One long, wet tress curled lovingly about Brelan's right forearm as though holding him to her forever. Her slim, white arms were around his bare back, pulling him ever closer. Saur's mouth had captured hers in a never-ending, longing caress full of promise and dark passion. They did not look up at the man who gazed at them with such deep pain. They were oblivious to him and to the world. It was as though nothing, and no one, existed but them. Conar wanted to run from this material source of his pain, but couldn't. He felt cold and he wrapped his arms around him, but the cold was in his heart and nothing, ever, would warm him again. "Do you see?" the gulls screamed. "Do you see, Conar?" The storm grew darker, heavier, and lightning slashed in the distance behind the mountains, turning the sky a deathly gray. Chill air swept over the beach, blowing the layers of lighter sand on the dunes into high spirals of blinding, stinging pain. The waves became stronger, the water moved higher as it lapped with increasing force at the lovers, pushing them closer together; rocking their bodies in a wild parody of lovemaking, blending together their wet bodies in abandon. "She is his, now," the gulls taunted. "She is lost to you! Gone, forever!" A terrible crashing sound shot out. Conar lifted his gaze to the ocean. A dark, rolling wave was forming, boiling, lurching, sweeping high within the churning green depths. Heaving itself closer to the lovers, the tidal wave was bearing down with ever-increasing speed, its black crest looming above the fiercely churning white caps. Evil laughter echoed down from the vault of the darkening sky and sank into the heaving waves. "She is his, now!" Conar tried to call out to the lovers, to warn them against the danger of the giant wave speeding toward them. His mouth could make no sound. There was a black silk gag wound across his lips; his hands and feet were shackled, bound to a tall post behind him. He forced his head away, looked at a tall ridge of mountain behind him, and saw

Kaileel Tohre standing there, an evil smile on his thin lips. "I've taken you away from her, Conar," the High Priest whispered in the flash of killing lightning. "She is in my hands now!" The tidal wave swept ever closer to the beach, unchallenged, unrestrained, unnoticed by the lovers. Tearing his eyes from the high wall of water, Conar looked at his wife and her lover and felt his soul lurch with hopelessness. There was nothing he could do to stop the waves from breaking over them, nothing he could do to keep the lovers apart, nothing he could do to keep Liza from being destroyed along with Brelan Saur. He was bound to the post, his hands burning with pain, his lips silenced. Suddenly, he was standing on the highest dune with Chandling and Grice Wynth, Liza's brothers. He heard Chand quietly sobbing. With horror, he watched as the wave spread over the lovers, recede, leaving nothing behind but an empty beach. The sea stilled, the sky cleared, the mocking gulls moved onto the higher dunes to keep their death vigil of the beach. "The Maelstrom claimed her," Grice said. "Aye, but she will return," Chand sighed. Kaileel's sinister voice flitted down to them from the tall peaks of Mount Serenia. "No, she will not. All that is left of her is Brelan Saur's girl-child." Conar felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him, but he jerked away. He fell to his knees and a scream of pure animal torment burst from his lungs—"No!!!" Jerking upright, Conar cringed away from the woman who tried to gather him in her arms. His breathing came in gasps, making it difficult to swallow. Sweat covered his body. He trembled from the force of his nightmare. "Conar," Liza called, stroking damp hair from his forehead. " 'Twas a dream, Milord." Prince Conar McGregor swung his startled attention toward his wife. Her lovely face shone in the sudden flash of lightning. He wiped the back of his trembling hand over his mouth and tried to still his thundering heart. "What?" he whispered, his voice shaking. "Only a dream, love," she repeated and drew him to her, patting his head as he buried his face in her shoulder. Conar closed his eyes and gave himself over to her care. He knew he should be comforting her, for he could finally hear the thunderous storm beating at their windows, but he needed her touch, her comfort, her closeness. "I dreamt you left me. Promise me you will never leave me, Milady." Liza brought him closer to her. She looked into the brilliant flashes of lightning washing the windowpanes. "Hush, now," she cooed, lowering her lips to the gleaming gold of his hair. "Hush. 'Twas just a dream." "I would die if I lost you." "Hush," she said, her voice more firm. "Think of our going home tomorrow." Against her breast, Conar smiled. "Home." "Aye. Tomorrow we leave for Boreas." "I love you," he said, lifting his head to look at her. Liza returned his gaze and smiled. "And I love you, Milord. Now go back to sleep. The storm is ending." When he was once more asleep beside her, Liza remained awake, staring into the darkness. Promise me you will never leave me, he had begged.

A single tear fell heedlessly down Liza McGregor's smooth cheek. That was one promise she could never make.

Chapter 2 Liza was seated at her dressing table the next morning when somebody knocked at her door. "Come," she bid and turned. A smile of welcome lit her lovely face. "Tampering with perfection again, Milady?" Lord Brelan Saur teased, nodding at the powder puff in her hand. She smiled as he came up to her. She saw him in the mirror as she tapped the powder across her shiny nose. "You do wonders for a lady's ego, Brelan Saur!" Placing his hands on her shoulders, he lightly kneaded the smooth muscles. "I only remark upon what I see, Milady." She sent him a wicked look of reproach. "What are you after, Bre?" "Me?" he asked, brows raised in mock innocence. She laughed. "You only compliment ladies when you want something from them." "True," he said as he hunkered beside her and began to pat her dog, Brown Stuff. "You're a pretty girl, too, huh, Brownie?" Liza looked down at him. All humor had gone from her face. "I hear you are leaving today." He shrugged and his wide shoulders stretched the fine lawn of his shirt. "It's time. I haven't run into that idiot husband of yours today, but the longer I stay, the better the odds that I will. I have done all I can here. You are in good health again and I am broken-hearted." He grinned as Brownie rolled on her back and begged for attention; he began to scratch her wide belly. "Brazen hussy." Liza laughed at her little dog. "She's jealous, Stuffen," Brelan whispered to the dog. He looked at Liza. "Run away with me and forget that ill-tempered brother of mine." "I must go home with my husband." Her lips twitched. "Thatill-tempered person of whom you speak." "So, I've heard." He sighed melodramatically. "You do have your problems." Liza smiled at his woebegone expression. "But I do have your friendship, do I not, Lord Saur?" She held out her hand. He placed a soft kiss on her upturned wrist. "If you should ever need me, you need but ask; you know where I can be found. Call on me and I shall be there for you, sweeting." "I shall miss you, Brelan Saur," she whispered as she put a hand on his wavy brown hair. He forced a sad smile to his lips. "As I shall miss you." A wicked grin replaced the forced smile. "But, if he gets out of line again, let me know. I'll hang the fool from the highest tree and leave him there to rot!" She regarded him with solemn eyes. "You truly don't mean that." When he made to protest, she laid the tips of her fingers across his lips. "You would never deliberately or intentionally harm him." Brelan gazed at her for a long time, pondering the wisdom of retelling her how he truly felt about her. He placed her fingers against his chest, over his pounding heart. "Make no mistake, Elizabeth. If it came down to me and Conar, just the two of us, and I knew you were mine for the

taking, I'd not hesitate to sweep him from your life forever." "But you wouldn't kill him, Bre. I know you. You couldn't. He is your flesh and blood." "Unfortunately, we can't choose our relatives," he growled. He stood, reaching down to touch her cheek. "Take care, Milady." He turned, his heart breaking as he strode to the door. "Bre?" He stopped, standing still, his hand on the doorknob, but he didn't look back at her. He didn't want her to see the tears brimming in his dark eyes. "Be careful, Milord. I would be very sad if anything ever happened to you." He could only nod as he opened her door and walked through. *** Conar placed the mug of ale on the table and sighed. He hadn't slept well last night; he certainly didn't have an appetite for breaking his fast today. His dreams soured his stomach this morning. Now, as he sat at the table, one of his men refilled his mug. The Elite chuckled. "Drink up, Commander. You look like death warmed over!" He took a sip of the spiced ale, but the taste bothered him and he set down the mug again. "Is it not to your liking?" Conar shook his head. "I seem to have lost my desire for ale." A worried frown crossed the Elite's face. Somehow, he had to make Conar drink the ale. It was imperative. A sound from the stairway leading up to the main sleeping chambers caught the man's attention. Lord Brelan Saur came down the staircase. A wicked grin of purpose settled over the Elite's face. "Lord Saur seems none too chipper this morn, Coni. He went to say his goodbye to our lady." Conar saw Brelan poised on the stairs, speaking with Grice Wynth—his best friend and Liza's eldest brother. An immediate frown formed on Conar's chiseled lips. "One of the servants says he was in there with her a long time. He waited until you'd come down and then snuck into her room. I hope for your sake he isn't going to cause any further trouble for you." "I thought Saur left the keep three days ago." The man shrugged. "I heard him tell one of Prince Grice's men that he had no intention of going until he was satisfied there was no chance the lady would leave you." Anger hardened Conar's jaw. "Is that so?" "I don't want you to worry, Conar," the Elite said conspiratorially, "but it was my understanding that he means to make his way to Boreas so he'll be close to Her Grace if you should…" The Elite shook his head. "Well, you know…mistreat her, again." Pure fury shot through Conar. He looked past his man to where Brelan was still standing on the stairs. Brelan glanced his way and for a momentd their glares held one another. A red-hot poker of jealousy plunged into Conar's gut. "Asshole." Brelan answered with a single, silent move of his lips. "Prick." Conar's lips pulled back from his teeth. Without thinking, he snatched up the mug and drained it in two swallows. The Elite's face filled with triumph.

Conar stood, his mouth pursed into a hard, unforgiving line. He walked to the archway of the dining chamber and watched as Brelan stepped off the stairs. "You got something you want to say to me, McGregor?" Brelan challenged. The Elite folded his arms and waited for the explosion. These two had never liked one another, but now the enmity brewing between them was palpable. The tension vibrated through the air, the atmosphere like that of a ticking bomb. "I want no more of your interference, Saur," Conar told his half-brother. "Keep away from my wife." "Do you honestly think I give a damn what you want? You aren't master in this keep. If I want to be with Elizabeth, I will be with her." "I'd be careful how intimately you use my wife's name, Saur. I'm not adverse to spilling your blood here and now; and I can promise you I will not mourn your passing!" His hand went to the black crystal dagger at his thigh. "If you seek to make my lady your concern, think again." Brelan's lip raised in taunt. "She has always been my concern, McGregor. Long beforeyou ever met her!" Conar's gut wrenched at the reminder that Saur courted Liza before she and Conar wed. He could feel hate for this man boiling his blood and glowered malevolently, vindictively. "She ismy concern now. She ismy wife." "For the time being." True fury washed over the Serenian prince. He clamped his fingers on the dagger at his side to keep himself from murdering Brelan Saur. Brelan nodded at the dagger. "I'm not afraid of you and I'm not afraid of that." His face turned hard. "She has asked that I not cause trouble here, and I made her a promise I intend to keep. But if you want a piece of me, I'll oblige you well away from this keep. And I'll make you a promise, as well. Therewill come a day, and we both know it, when Iwill shed that precious blood of yours!" "Aye," a voice agreed, "and there willalso come a day when you will hold his blood more precious than anything else in this world, Brelan Saur!" Queen Medea, Liza's mother, called from the balcony above. "I can promise you that!" Brelan laughed, his stare locking with Conar's. "Thatwill never happen." "Aye, it will," Medea warned. "Not in thislifetime!" "That may well be true, but it will happen just as I say." The Queen came down the stairs. "I would like a word with you, Conar." "I am at your service, Majesty," he said, all too aware of Brelan glaring at him. Medea came to the last step and stood watching the two men. "Put your dislike aside, gentlemen. What I have to say concerns you both." She folded her slim arms over her ample bosom. Conar started to tell her he didn't want his brother there, but her words stopped him. "Have you no faith in Anya Elizabeth, Conar? There is only friendship between her and Brelan." He let his gaze wander down Saur in insulting fashion. "It's far more than that for him." "I've never denied that I love her," Brelan snapped. Conar took a step forward, but the Queen placed herself between them. "Not in my keep,ever again!" Conar's belly began to burn. He felt anger careening through his system like the advance of molten lava down a volcano. He was aware of his trembling; not enough for Medea or Brelan to notice, but enough for him to feel. His hands were clammy with sweat, his head started to pound, and he felt sick to his stomach. He flicked his attention from Brelan and stared at his mother-in-law, taking his frustration out on her. "What is it you

want, Lady?" he asked belligerently. "I have better things to do than stand here and chatter!" His insulting tone alarmed the Queen. She could sense his tightly-checked rage, could smell the hatred rolling off him, and took a self-protective step backward. She cringed as his eyes leapt back to Brelan. His words further shocked her: "By the gods, I hate you, Saur!" "Don't start something, McGregor," Brelan warned, also aware of the suddenly charged emotions hovering around Conar. "She's asked you, and so has Elizabeth." "Keep my wife's name off your filthy tongue!" Conar hands itched to strangle the life from Saur's body. "It comes far too easily to your lips!" The Queen probed the aura surrounding him; a dark scarlet haze of murderous intent haloed his body. Her alarm turned to fear. She tried to enter his thoughts, to read his intentions. He wasn't even looking at her, yet she could tell he was more than aware of her psychic probing. He blocked her out as easily as if she were a novice. He turned to her. "Stop that. Don't try it again. If you do, you'll wish you hadn't!" Medea's face paled. "What is wrong with you?" When he only glared, she shook her head. "I am not sure we should allow Anya Elizabeth to leave with you, after all." A sneer formed on Conar's sensual mouth. He raked her from head to toe with a scathing look of dismissal. "If you try to stop me, Madame, your keep will run red with the blood of your followers! I promise you!" Medea gasped. "You're speaking of shedding blood to get what you want?" "If that's what it takes, so be it. When I leave Oceania, my lady goes with me, or you'll have to bury me in this land!" He took a step toward her, grinning evilly as she moved back. "Andyou'll bury more of your men than you'll be able to count!" "He's lost what precious little reason he ever had," Brelan said under his breath, confused by the glimmer of madness in his brother's face. Conar had always been a bit irrational, but never had he made such ridiculous threats. Conar glanced at his brother. "Not threats, Saur. Promises!" He turned to walk away. "I'm not finished with him, Brelan," the Queen whispered. "Get him back." "With pleasure." Saur grabbed his brother's arm, spinning him around and pushing him against the balustrade. He didn't give Conar a chance to reach for his dagger before drawing his own. Conar felt the blade at his throat. "I have things to say to you, Conar," Medea told him, "and youwill listen." "Do I have a choice?" Brelan pressed the sharp blade into the soft flesh just above Conar's Adam's apple. "None." Queen Medea sat on a stone bench near the stairs and folded her hands in her lap. She was no longer afraid, but her worries intensified and, until she could get to the bottom of this irrational rage, he would not be taking her daughter anywhere. "Brelan is privy to what happened at the Abbey, Conar. He knows about what goes on in that vile place, and he has some knowledge of what must have been done to you there." What Conar saw in Brelan's eyes wasn't what he had expected. There was no disquiet, no disgust, no loathing. If anything, there was understanding. Brelan's words were even more of a shock. "I'd have done the same for her, McGregor." If Conar had ever had doubts concerning Brelan's affections for his wife, that one statement dispelled them. "You both love her and you both want what is best for her," the Queen said, bringing Conar's attention back to her. "As do I. I have gone to the Shadowlands and spoken to the Oracle. What I learned there greatly distresses me."

"I did what I had to do," Conar defended. "If your gods-be-damned Oracle doesn't approve—" "There was never a question of whether she approved, Conar," Medea interrupted. "She would have protected you if she could have, but the gods did not allow it. Even the Great Lady, Herself, could not stop what had to happen, nor could She have retrieved Liza from Tohre's clutches. Your sacrifice was needed for that." "It wasn't what happened there that concerns us," Brelan put in. "It's this insane anger of yours." "Look whose hands are on me! I have a right to be angry." "Look at yourself," Medea pointed out. "You are literally quivering with rage and it started before Brelan ever laid hands on you. Where such fury comes from is a mystery to me and I suspect a mystery to you, as well." "I can handle it." "You could not control it at Boreas when you abused your wife." Conar flinched. "That was different. Now…" Medea stood and approached the two men, laying a hand on Conar's cheek, stopping his words. "There's something the Oracle thinks you must know, something Anya would never tell you." She took a deep breath, glanced at Saur for strength, and then looked back at Conar. "When Grice and Legion got her back, she was carrying Galen's seed. Healer Cayn aborted it." Conar's face turned scarlet. "Tohre promised me—" "You should know by now you can't trust Kaileel Tohre," Brelan sighed. "All Kaileel Tohre wanted was you, just as he has always wanted you," the queen explained. "Once he had you, once he had your soul, or thought he was about to take it, he was satisfied to leave Anya with your twin's seed impregnating her as a punishment." She turned her head. "For Galen as well, for daring to want her." "Galen is as tight with Tohre as he ever was," Brelan reminded Conar. "Tohre will help Galen try to take her from you again." "Galen McGregor will never lay hands to my wife again!" Conar swore. "I will—" "Anya will be safer here with me," Medea cut in. "I don't believe I can allow her to leave with you in the frame of mind you are now exhibiting." "I can keep my lady safe!" "You aren't the most rational of men at the best of times, McGregor," Brelan grunted. "When you're like this, you can't do squat." "Shut up!" Conar shouted. "I can protect my wife!" "I can not take the chance you might hurt her," the queen stated firmly. "You had better have Saur kill me here and now, for I promise, Medea, I will die trying to take her home!" He jerked against Brelan's hold and felt the sting of the dagger slipping across his windpipe. He sucked in his breath, but he tore his thoughts from his physical discomfort. "I have the power to take her!" The Queen's gaze was sorrowful as she looked at him. "You are only just realizing that power, Conar. You have no clear-cut idea what it is you have, nor do you know how to use it. If the time came to use it and you faltered, if you let your anger rule your head, both you and Anya could be destroyed in the twinkling of an eye." "She is my wife! She belongs with me. I will not let Saur have her!" Medea sighed with exasperation. "Anya is yours. Brelan has made no move to usurp that right." "Not yet, anyway," Brelan said.

"Be still, Brelan," Medea told him. "Your mouth makes things worse. Conar, I will have my daughter safe. Your conduct is caused, no doubt, by something Tohre has set into motion. Do you think he will give up when you bring Anya back with you? He will turn his demons against her as well." "Have you no faith in me?" Conar roared. He tried to pull free of Brelan's grip; he felt Liza slipping through his fingers once more. "Move like that again, McGregor, and you'll sever an artery!" Brelan hissed. "Isn't that what you want? My blood?" "It would make no difference to me." "I have told you it would," the Queen warned. She eased away Brelan's hand from contact with Conar's flesh, and flinched as a thin seepage of blood oozed down her son-in-law's throat. "Be good, Coni," Brelan whispered as he held the dagger close to Conar's throat without touching it. "My hand might slip." "TheSeachance is lying at anchor in the harbor," Medea informed the Prince. "The storm might delay departure for a few days, but when the ship is provisioned, you will be put on board. We will keep Anya safe until you have dealt with Tohre." "You can't do that!" Conar yelled. "We can, and we will. When you have shown us you can control your temper and Tohre's danger, we will consider whether she may return to you." "That could take years!" "That is up to the gods to decide. Anya will remain safely within her homeland until we are satisfied she is in no danger in yours." Conar's voice went soft as a serpent's hiss. "And if you are never satisfied that I can protect her, you'll just hand her over to Saur. Is that it?" Brelan lips stretched into a fine grin. "One can only hope." "Quiet, Brelan!" Medea snapped with irritation. "I'll not tell you again to hold your tongue unless you wish to join your brother in the dungeon." "Dungeon?" Conar went perfectly still. Medea placed a cool hand on Conar's brow. She mumbled strange words and he suddenly felt faint. "What are you doing?" he asked, the world skidding away before his eyes. He slumped against Brelan, who hastily dropped his dagger to keep Conar from falling. "Petrov? Kristoffer?" Medea called. "Don't touch me!" Conar insisted as the two burly guards marched up to him. He tried to focus on Medea. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "Making sure you cause no trouble." Brelan stepped back as the two men took hold of Conar's arms, tightening their grip when he attempted to pull away. "Put His Grace in a cell until it is time for his ship to leave," the Queen ordered. "I can not trust him to behave under lock and key in his chambers." "Don't you dare!" Conar thundered, struggling weakly against the men who firmly held him between them. The struggle only made his dizziness worse. Medea glanced up the stairs at her husband. "Have your men find his men, Shaz, and jail them."

Shaz nodded, unable to speak. Here was his warrior-wife of legend whom he'd been warned about many years before; he knew better than to go against her wishes. "Keep him well apart from his men," she told her guards. "I want no conspiracy brewing." Conar snarled as the men pulled him away. He limply craned his head over his shoulder and glared at the Queen. "You will regret this! You can't keep her away from me!" He managed to free one arm and sent a rock-hard fist into one guard as he kicked out at the other. "Get your gods-be-damned hands off me." "Shackle him, Petrov," the Queen ordered, surprised by Conar's sudden capability. So strong, already, without a clue how to control it. She reached inside her skirt pocket and withdrew a vial of greenish fluid. "Place this potion on the closings of the shackles. It will ensure him not being able to use his powers to escape." "Damn you," Conar moaned. He tried to gather his wits into a cohesive line of power, but after his ferocious outburst, he found he couldn't. He tried to kick out, but the a guard grabbed his legs, swinging him off the floor; he was left dangling between them. He was so furious he could think of no curse to hurl at the woman as he was carried out of the hall. Brelan smiled as Grice and Chand joined him at the foot of the stairs. "What a glorious sight!" "Don't say that!" Medea hissed. Brelan's smile disappeared. "I only meant—" "Oh, do be quiet, Saur! You have no idea what things you've set into motion with your silly, childish taunts!" "I can't help it if I don't like the man." The queen stared at him as he joined her sons at the stairs. Once again she saw the future as though she were looking through a pane of glass. She became witness to the final confrontation between Brelan Saur and Conar McGregor. It would be the turning point in their lifelong struggle. She flinched; her sorceress' vision leapt beyond what she had seen taking place between the them to the actual place where it was to occur. Her heart ached. Nothing she could do would ever change what the gods had in store for them. "Despite what you say you feel about your brother, you will be his greatest ally one day," she called softly, drawing Saur's immediate attention. "I know that will never happen, Majesty." Later that evening, when she and her husband were alone, she wept against Shaz's shoulder. He held her as she poured out her fears. "His love will cost him dearly, Shaz. Brelan Saur will pay a high price." Her voice broke as she saw an unalterable future. "It will cost him his life."

Chapter 3 The intense chill of the stone floor woke him from his enforced sleep. He opened his eyes to stare at the moisture-dripping wall across from him and shuddered as a large rat scampered down the slick surface. His cell was five feet in diameter, windowless in the damp dungeon of Seadrift Keep. The only light was a torch outside the barred door. The stench of rotting hay and ages-old excrement and urine made his nostrils quiver and his eyes sting. Absently, he wondered who had been the cell's last inhabitant, and how long ago. Not that it mattered in the least, he thought dismally.

They must have looked long and hard to find just the right cell for his imprisonment. This one was, by far, the worst he had ever seen. Not that he had seen many; imprisonment was something he had encountered only a few times. The cells at the Abbey were harsh, but they were, for the most part, cleaner than this. His one and only encounter with a civilian jail—long ago and thanks to Teal du Mer—had been a helluva sight better than this.This was a nightmare. He growled with contempt, pulled against his bonds, flinching at the pain. He glared at the chains that secured him to the thick wall. His hands, manacled beside his head, had gone numb; his wrists were raw from trying to pull free when he'd first been cast into this dismal, dank tomb. The bands gouging into his flesh set his teeth on edge; a trickle of pain spread down his arms when he tried to flex his fingers. His feet barely touched the floor, but that was just as well, for he heard the rodents. Water dripped down his back. He cringed, craning his neck to look at the ceiling. Squinting in the semi-darkness, he could just make out a rivulet of shiny wetness tracking down the wall. From the smell, and thickness of it, it must have come from a privy. He wrinkled his nose with distaste and pulled fiercely on his chains. He howled with frustration, slumping into the bands around his wrists, flinching as the lacerated flesh pulled taut. "Damn it!" he spat as something thick and viscous dripped onto his right shoulder and the musky stench of excrement filled his nostrils. He jerked involuntarily, gagged as the glob traveled down his chest, slid down his side. Whatever had landed on him oozed past his waist and he felt the trail of its passing like something alive. "Damn it!" He jerked again, trying to rid himself of what had fallen on him. The movement brought fiery pain through his hands and arms, needles through his fingers. He gave up and sank into a semi-conscious state of anger and humiliation. *** "You've done what?" Liza shouted at her brother, jerking away from his restraining hand. "How dare you, Griceland? How dare you!" "Easily!" Grice snapped. "He behaved like an animal and he is being treated like one. I will have no more of this talk. You'll do what Mama and Papa say, Anya Elizabeth. He stays where he is until the ship is readied." He put his face close to his sister's. "And you'd better remember what Mama said. If you try to go to him, or encourage another to do so, you will only be increasing his time in jail!" Spinning on his heel, the eldest Oceanian prince stalked from the room, slamming his sister's door behind him. Liza flung a vase of fresh-cut flowers against the door where it shattered onto the carpet. Furious, she snatched up her shawl and flung open her door, mindless of the glass shards crunching beneath her slippers. Her angry stride took her to her mother's room where she knocked with a heavy hand on the pine portal. "Come," the Queen called even as the door opened. "I will not have it, Madame!" Liza shouted. "Release him this minute!" She came to within a few inches of her mother and stopped, her gaze angry and belligerent. "He has been through enough because of me already!" Medea nodded. "And will suffer much more because of you." "What does that mean?" "It is not up to me to explain the future to you, girl. You should know it yourself. If you don't, that is the will of the gods." "I knowthis . If you don't have my husband released immediately, I'll never speak to you again!" The Queen shrugged. "That can't be helped, Anya Elizabeth." She sat heavily on her bed. "You don't realize what it is you ask. I am only trying to protect you." "Conar can protect me. Together, he and I, can defeat Kaileel Tohre and his followers if that is your concern." Liza went to her knees in front of her mother, taking the older woman's hands in hers and bringing them to her cheek. "I

know you mean well, Mama. I know you love me, but I am a woman grown." Her face turned sad. "It is my husband we have to worry about. Not me." "Do you honestly believe you are in no danger?" her mother asked incredulously. Liza shook her head. "It is Conar who bears the burden of Tohre's hatred." Her gaze shifted away. "Or love, as that fiend knows it." Medea's face flamed. She looked down at her folded hands. "Even though he is a man, and even though Conar does not return that…that…" Her face burned even brighter. "…love, as you call it, Tohre is a rival, daughter." She looked at her child. "Jealousy is a dangerous emotion when two people are fighting over the same loved one. That man could be a danger to you as well." Liza shrugged. "I can take care of myself." "As you did when Galen McGregor took you?" her mother asked softly. "I made a mistake in underestimating my enemies, Mama. I shall not do so again. Tohre had a lock of my hair and I did not realize it. That particular threat has been neutralized. Have no fear,; I know who my enemy is and I know what he wants—my husband." "Tohre will let nothing stand in his way, Anya. He is dangerous. If he can not have what he wants, he might destroy it entirely." Liza stood. "You told me once that all little birds have to leave the nest and learn to fly on their own. You said it was difficult for the mother bird to watch them fall, harder still not to pick them up and help them back into the roost. You asked if I thought the little birds would ever learn to fly if the mother bird was always there to pick them up, to smooth their crumpled feathers." She touched her mother's cheek. "I have left the nest, Mama, and made a place of my own with Conar. When we fly, it must be together. If he falls, I will pick him up; if I fall, he will be there to put me back in our nest." "How can you be so sure?" "Because Conar and I were destined to be together. I am the Keeper of the Wind; he is the Prince of the Wind. Our love is greater than all the adversity thrown our way. Nothing,nothing , will ever keep us apart! Not even the Maelstrom!" Queen Medea lowered her gaze so her daughter would not see the knowledge of the future in her shining green orbs. Sometimes it was best if the child was spared the agony of what was to be, what could not be altered. Looking at her daughter, she sighed in defeat. What would be, would be. "He will be released this evening," Medea sighed. "His men will be put on board the ship first so there will be no trouble and you may join him once he is on board." Her delicate shoulders sagged with helplessness. "I only wanted what was best for you." "I know," Liza told her, bending to kiss the feather-soft flesh on her mother's cheek. "I thank you for that." As she sat there after her daughter had gone, a sad, fleeting smile of hopelessness flitted over Medea's face. It was a heavy thing knowing the future, an even heavier thing to be able to do nothing about it. Sometimes she wished she had no such ability. "We will protect her," a soothing wind whistled through the Queen's bedchamber. Medea nodded. "So you have said." "We will," came the soft reply. "Do you doubt me?" The Queen flung a heavy strand of jet-black hair from her high forehead and glared into the room's dark shadows. "I find I doubt everything these days." "Have your doubts, woman. They are of no consequence to me. I have given my word that Liza will be safe." A menacing tone crept into the words. "But you will not be!" Tears filled the Queen's eyes. "I know," she whispered to the fleeting wind. "I know."

*** When his cell door opened and two guards entered to unlock his manacles, Conar chaffed his wrists and glared at Grice Wynth. The Prince Regent of Oceania stood in the cell opening and motioned him out. "What now?" Conar asked, a surly expression on his unshaven face. He had been in the cell two days, had expected to be there longer, but there was something in the way Wynth stood that caught Conar's immediate attention. Something had happened. "Tell me." "Your Elite have engaged some of my guards. There has been a death and they have taken hostages. They are demanding to see you." Grice's voice was tight with rage. "Papa wants you to speak with your men so there will be no further bloodshed." Conar stumbled forward as one of his guards shoved him toward Grice. "Stop!" Wynth shouted to his man. But Conar didn't pay any attention to his indignities. Concern filled his face. "Are my men well?" Grice looked away. "We were in the process of releasing them to take them to the ship, when your man, Sentian, attacked. He took charge and your other Elite followed him." Conar grinned. "Good for Sentian." Grice ignored the comment. "Our guards were only doing their duty. Blood should not have been shed. Your Elite are threatening to kill a hostage every half hour until you are brought to them." His face took on a hard edge. "Will they do it?" Conar's grin faded. "They will." "I want your word that there will be no more trouble, McGregor." "We didn't start the trouble." "A man died! Didn't you hear me?" "And I tell you, you asked for such trouble when you slapped me and my men in your gods-be-damned dungeon. Sentian did his duty. You can not fault him for defending his Overlord." The look his Grice gave Conar was one of pure disbelief. "Aye!" he snarled, "and a good man died because of Sentian Heil! Does that make you happy?" "I am never happy when innocent lives are lost, Wynth; but you are responsible." Grice Wynth was deeply upset that any lives had been lost. His guards weren't prepared for the sheer volume of violence Sentian Heil garnered as the last man was freed from his cell. Conar's guards had been docile up to that point, but upon hearing their Overlord had also been—and still was—incarcerated, the men had gone berserk. Hard-pressed to keep themselves from being slain, astonished at the savagery with which the Serenians fought, Grice's men took flight. It was not until Grice had given his word—as Liza's brother—that no harm would befall Conar then the Elite backed off, taking five hostages as they waited for their commander to be released. Grice could only imagine what they would have done had they been told Conar was shackled to a stone wall, standing ankle-deep in shit. Conar's grin returned, for he picked up on Grice's thoughts. "Aye, it's avery good thing," he warned and watched Wynth start with surprise. "I will give you my word they will not harm anyone else. All they want is to see me safe. Once that happens, they will be satisfied as long as none of them have been hurt." "Your men weren't harmed," Grice said with clenched teeth. He walked away, expecting Conar to follow. He flinched when Conar put a light hand on his shoulder. "What?" came the snappish query. "I am sorry, Grice. For the loss of your man."

A quick, grudging nod was the only answer Wynth could give. He walked as fast as he could down the darkened corridor to the holding area where Sentian and the others were keeping hostages. Seeing the grim, dark circles under their Overlord's eyes did little to calm the Serenians. When Thom noticed the raw places on Conar's wrists and realized he had been shackled, he howled with rage and threw himself at Grice. He would have crippled the Oceanian if Conar had not stepped between them. "No, Loure." He put a hand on Thom's thick chest. "There has been enough violence done." "They chained you!" Marsh Edan spat, shoving the hostage closest to him against the wall. "They dared to chain you!" "And they told us we are to leave, but they make no mention of our lady!" Sentian shouted. "We do not leave without her!" Swallowing bitter bile in his throat at the reminder that Liza was being kept from him, Conar looked at Sentian Heil. He knew he had chosen wisely that day, long ago, when Sentian asked to join the troop leaving for Norus. He also knew Sentian was now his wife's Sentinel, her guardian, her helper in the magic she wielded. The young village man had become a leader, it seemed, and it was obvious the others now looked to him for guidance. Conar felt a great deal of pride in Heil. It wouldn't surprise him if Heil was voted second in command of the Elite behind Thom, since that position changed yearly. "See that our departure is made easy, my friend," Conar asked, laying a restraining hand on Sentian's shoulder. "Does Her Grace travel back with us, Your Majesty?" Sentian inquired, asking what was obviously on the mind of every Elite. Conar drew on every ounce of his strength to look his friend in the eye. He knew his men would view his answer as defeat; his face burnt with the humiliation. They were willing to fight for him, and even though circumstance forced him to deny them that right this day, he knew in his heart they would come back for his lady. "No, she does not, Sentian." Grice could have told him differently, but he saw the looks passing between Conar's men and he folded his arms over his chest, curious as to what would happen next. "If your lady does not leave these shores, Majesty, neither will we!" Storm Jale spoke up for all the men. Smiling grimly at his friends' words, Conar drew a deep breath, his heart filling with pride. "I appreciate what you are willing to do, all of you, but I have given my word we will cause no further trouble." "We didn't giveour word!" Marsh shouted, his eyes blazing. "We will fight to the death, if need be. You have only to say the word, Commander." "She's our Princess!" Thom snapped. "Our lady goes home with us!" "Else we stay here," Marsh snarled. "Under Oceanian soil, if need be, but we'll take a few of these bastards with us! I'd give my life for her, Milord!" A lump formed in Conar's throat. "I am honored by your offer, but I gave my word for all of you. Would you shame me before these barbarians?" Grice threw Conar a challenging look, but remained silent. He was intrigued by the loyalty these men were showing his sister. "If it is your wish, given without duress, that we go to the ship, then we will. We would never do anything to shame you, Commander," Thom told him. "Then lay down your weapons and go with these men to the ship." Conar glanced at Grice. "You have His Grace's personal word that no harm will come to you." Grice nodded. "And do we havehis word that no harm will be done toyou ?" Sentian asked Conar.

"He'll be on that ship with you," Grice replied. "I promise." "Unharmed?" Storm wanted clarified. "Unchained?" Thom added. Grice turned to the man he considered the leader. "Aye, Heil. Unharmed, unchained and unlikely to be of any further nuisance to me!" "Don't count on it," Sentian replied. His dark look glazed with ice. "If his lady doesn't go with us, expect plenty of nuisance." "He can expect more than nuisance!" Thom put in. "Don't talk to His Grace like that, you gods-ugly troll!" one of Grice's men snarled, taking a step toward Thom, although the Elite had at least fifty pounds and seven inches in height on him. "Rest easy, Kristoffer," Grice warned. "Insults are like maggots, they only hurt men who have open wounds." His furious glance went to Conar. "This fellow's toadies haven't even struck blood yet, let alone wounded me." "I'd say we struck plenty of blood when your man fell," Thom gloated. "Aye, and anymore blood you shed will see your ass swinging from the highest yardarm!" Petrov, Kristoffer's brother, growled. "Treat my men well, Wynth, or I promise you'll regret not doing so," Conar warned. Grice stared at him. "You are nine to my…what?…hundred or more in this keep? Don't threaten me, McGregor!" Conar's smile returned with a deadly sheen. "It wasn't a threat, Wynth; it was a promise." *** As they made their way to the throne room where the King and Queen of Oceania were awaiting Conar, Grice cast a sidelong glance at his brother-in-law and begrudgingly spoke what was uppermost in his mind. "Your men do you proud." Conar didn't look at him. "They love me." "And my sister? Do they love her?" "Aye, that they do. And they know injustice when they see it, and are willing to fight for what they believe in." He walked through the doorway Grice indicated. "They also recognize spite." Grice shrugged. "One man's injustice can be another man's retribution; one man's spite, another's vindication. You have atoned for only a small portion of the crimes you have committed against my sister." Unaware they had entered the throne room, Conar stopped dead and turned to stare hard at the man. "There is no punishment either you or your parents could conceive that would torture me more than does my conscience, Wynth. Rest assured my punishment will last far longer than these scabs!" He held up his wrists and was startled to see Grice look away with what could only be described as shame. "You manacled my body; Liza's pain manacled my heart. Think your punishment the greater of the two?" Grice turned a scowling face to his brother-in-law. "It would suit my purposes better if you were kept in the dungeon. Then you couldn't hurt my sister ever again! You haven't been punished nearly as much as I would have liked!" He took a step closer to Conar. "But I can promise you, there will come a day when I'll see you pay for all your sins against this family!" "That's enough!" Grice's mother shouted, her body fairly trembling with anger. "Find your sister, Griceland!" "He—" Grice began. "Find your sister! Now! This minute!"

"You didn't tell him, did you, Grice?" his father inquired from the throne. Grice shook his head and strode angrily away, his shoulders hunched. "He didn't deserve to be told." "Tell me what?" Conar demanded. The queen glanced first at Conar's tired face, then his filthy clothing, and she was not pleased with what she saw. Nor what she smelled. She crinkled her nose. "I shall have a bath prepared on ship for you immediately." "I think you have a leak in one of your privies, Madame." Medea's gaze went to his wrists and then to the calm face looking back at her. "You are hurt," she whispered, knowing full well her daughter would be furious. "I could use some salve. The cuts could become infected." The queen raised her head, her pride pricked by the condemnation she saw in her son-in-law's azure depths. "I'll use a healing charm—" "Just some salve will do." His own head raised a fraction. "I will do the rest." King Shaz frowned. He did not like his son-in-law's tone. "Your stay in jail did nothing to temper your mood, did it?" Conar switched his steady stare to the king. "Put me there again, if it pleases you. Either imprison me or kill me, for I will never leave this land without my wife." "You gave your word—" Shaz began. "That my men would cause no more harm, and they won't. I didn't say anything about me. I won't leave these shores without Liza at my side. You can try to keep her away from me, but I will find a way to get her back. She belongs with me! I will fight for her!" "And die in the trying?" "If you think to kill the very heart inside this body by trying to give her to another man, then you had best have me hung, for I can promise you, I will fight to the death to keep her. I have suffered more than you will ever know for the love I fight to keep. What is a little more pain?" "Medea, will you listen to him? I don't think—" "Anya will be leaving with you, Conar," Medea announced. "That is her wish, not ours." "We still have our doubts," Shaz fumed. Conar smiled, but there was no warmth in that smile. "She wasn't happy with what you did to me, was she?" "That's neither here nor there," Medea began, but Conar's derisive laugh was brittle. "Oh, I'd say your words said it all!" He shook his head. "These games you play are dangerous, Medea. One day you may find someone who plays them better!" Medea blushed. "I did what I thought best for my child." "Liza is mine. I will brook no more interference from either one of you again. As for Brelan Saur, don't ever again try to put him between Liza and me. If you do, if you try to, I swear before heaven and earth I will make damned sure you never set eyes on her again and you will be mourning at his funereal pyre!" "Medea!" Shaz gasped. "We cannot allow this! The man is not lucid! Listen to what he threatens!" "Put no more stumbling blocks in our path, Shaz," Conar warned. "I'll take this bloody keep apart if you do!"

"Go to the ship, Conar," Medea told him, wanting to diffuse the situation before anymore of her furniture was in danger of being destroyed. "She'll be there shortly." When the Prince made no move, she sighed. "You have my word as a Daughter of the Multitude that your wife will be joining you before the sun is set." Conar bowed slightly. "She had better."

Chapter 4 "We are not sailing to Boreas," Liza informed the captain once theSeachance was well out to sea. "Go where my husband tells you." The captain looked from princess to prince, took in the stubborn looks on both young faces, weighed the problems he would have with his king and queen when he returned to Fealst, then took the lesser of two evils. "To where do you wish us to set sail, Your Grace?" he asked Conar. Unwilling to have anyone cause them anymore problems, Conar ordered the ship to the southern tip of Oceania where the black-sand beach stretched into the hazy wisps of fog, the beginning of the uncharted seas know asThe Sinisters . The captain bowed respectfully, looked to the heavens, then ordered his First Mate to change course. "He wants to go to Montyne Cay," the captain sighed, shaking his head at the First Mate who stared aghast. "Just get us there, man!" The captain wasn't quite as accommodating when told to dock on the island and remain until Prince Conar decided it was time to leave. "But when will that be, Your Grace?" the captain asked Liza. "Whenever my lord deems it time." Once on the small island—most of whose inhabitants had long since moved on to more populated regions—the crew of theSeachance , the men of the Elite, Gezelle who was Liza's maidservant, along with Conar and his lady, made use of the still livable huts and fishing boats left behind. The living was comfortable, if primitive. The natives were friendly and helpful. Fresh water was taken from an island spring and plenty of fruit trees and wild boar were found about the land. There were vegetables still growing in abandoned gardens and fish practically leapt into the outriggers when the Elite went fishing. Only a few of the crew—those married or engaged men who did not want to be long away from their families—had left the ship at Hare's Down, the last heavily populated town before reaching Montyne Cay. When King Gerren, Conar's father, received word of his son's folly, he shouted in fury, punching Hern Arbra on his thick shoulder and reminded the old Master-at-Arms of just how unruly his son had become of late. "The boy's tetched!" Gerren seethed. "The boy knows what he's about," Hern countered. "Leave him be." Only two men were truly angered by Conar's decision to prolong his return to Boreas Keep, the Serenian Capitol. Kaileel Tohre and the Elite guard, whom the High Priest had sent along with Conar. Neither man was willing to let any length of time go by before Conar received the just punishment he so richly deserved. Unable to utilize the Brotherhood of the Domination's magical powers so near the boundary of The Sinisters—a sort of no-man's-land where Magik did not work—Tohre had no choice but to leave the prince alone. The Elite in Tohre's employment bided his time as well, fearful of causing mischief. Since the protection stones given

to him by Tohre had no power within the Sinisters, the man had no choice but to lay low for fear Sentian or Thom would suspect him. Peering off into the drifting fog that obscured the rest of the ocean beyond The Sinisters, hiding what dwindling land could be glimpsed, Conar held his wife against him and made a vow. They would stay on this small wisp of land until all was right between them. *** "This was Syn-Jern Sorn's hideout, wasn't it?" Liza asked, thinking of her husband's outlaw ancestor. "Aye," Conar said, "and this is where he brought his lady-wife so no harm could befall her." "And their children were born here," she sighed, looking at the little ones playing in the surf. "Liza, I…" he started, feeling the loss of their own son, but she put a hand to his lips. "I am tired, Milord," she whispered. "Don't you think we should go to bed?" Conar grinned at her as he saw the twinkle in her green orbs. "Will I get any sleep, Milady?" "Maybe. Then again, maybe not. Don't you think we should strive to give Serenia an heir?" "You think so?" Liza nodded thoughtfully. "I do." The Prince of the Wind sighed deeply. "The things I do for my people." He brought her hand to his lips. Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he placed a tender kiss in her palm then lowered her hand and pressed her splayed fingers over his heart. "We need to talk, Milady." He cupped her cheek with his free hand. "Without the distraction your lovely body causes me in bed." Blushing, Liza lowered her head. She giggled. "There I go being a distraction again." Her reference to a conversation they had when they first met made Conar smile. "Far more pleasant than a loud noise or buzzing insect." She looked up. "You remember that?" He pulled her to him. "I remember everything that has ever happened between us, Liza-love," he whispered against her hair. "Most things have been sheer bliss, but there have been times when I think you would have been better off never having known me." When she tried to pull away, he would not allow it. "Let me have my say while I have the courage to speak my mind." She relaxed against him, her cheek pressed to his wide chest. "So long as you do not denigrate the man I love, I'll hear you out." He rested his chin on top of her head and looked out to sea. The wind blew gently across his face, fanning the thick golden hair and mingling with her raven tresses. The symbolism of the moment was not lost on him. "You know what I made Gezelle do," he said softly. Liza closed her eyes. "Aye, Conar. I know." "She has every right to hate me." "She does not." "It was an evil thing I made her do and…" She pushed away from him. "Donot say what you are about to say, Milord!"

"Liza, I was punished for it and you were punished alongside me. I…" "Stop!" she snapped, tearing free of his arms. "What happened to our child was an accident, Conar McGregor. No one was punishing either of us. It could have happened had you been at Seadrift or not!" He had often admired the militant gleam in his lady-wife's eyes, and as he looked at her he knew she would always refuse to believe the death of their son was his fault. He also knew he would ever hold himself to blame, but made a silent vow to never bring up the subject again with Liza. He opened his arms. Liza sniffed disdainfully then went to him, slipping easily into his embrace. "No more such talk, do you hear?" "Aye, Milady." "What else?" she mumbled, holding her breath. "Brelan." Liza winced. "We are friends and nothing more." "To him you are more." "Do you trust me, Conar?" "Without reservation." Liza cocked one brow. "Is that why you fought with Bre?" "I said I trusted you. I did not say I was not jealous of you. You know gods-be-damned well I'm the most jealous man on the face of the earth." His arms tightened painfully around her. "And why do you think that might be, Madame?" She grinned. "The stables in Ciona might have a tad to do with it, I suppose." Now he arched a brow. "And the library at Seadrift when that jackass rubbed your belly and declared he wished the babe was his? Might that not have a tad to do with it, as well?" "It might." Conar snorted. "It had everything to do with it, woman. If he lays another hand to you, he'll draw it back as a stump." Liza started to laugh, but her husband lifted her face so he could stare into her eyes. She sobered when she saw his stern expression. "Of all the men in all the world I do not want you near, Brelan Saur is at the top of the list. Do you understand, Anya Elizabeth?" When he used her full name, she knew he was being deadly serious. "Aye, Milord, I understand." "I don't want you to see him. I don't want you to correspond with him. I do not want you to have anything to do with him. Is that understood?" His fingers were hurting her, but she did not protest. "Aye, Conar." He relaxed and threaded his hands through her hair to bring her face to his. He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, then placed a feather-soft kiss upon her lips. When he lifted his head, he smiled softly, then swept her up in his arms, heading toward the huts. "Conar!" she protested, laughing. "I intend to love you well and truly, Liza McGregor," he said as he started down the trail. "Distraction that I am?" she asked, lowering her head to his shoulder. He chuckled. "You are a distraction I have learned to enjoy."

Sentian looked up as his Overlord kicked open the door to the hut. The warrior stood, grabbed the mending he'd been doing and darted past the prince and his lady. "Have fun," he said over his shoulder as he closed the door. "I intend to," Conar called and grinned when he heard Sentian's answering laugh. With infinite care, he laid his wife on the bed and sat beside her. His gentle smile was filled with peace and pride in the lovely woman who belonged to him. Liza lifted her arms to him; he stretched out beside her. She drew him to her, molding his long body to hers and pulled his head to her breast. "I have one request," she said. Conar looked up from unlacing her gown's bodice. "That being?" "No more tantrums." He craned his neck. "I've had none since we've been here, despite Thom annoying me with…" "I don't know what caused such ill temper, Milord, but I'll have no more of it." She sternly looked at him. "And no more drinking, McGregor. You can not handle it." He drew in a long breath—his fingers stilled at her bosom—then nodded as he slowly exhaled. "No more liquor." When she arched a black brow, he crossed his heart. "I swear it!" "And no more dallying where you ought not to be dallying, else I'll relieve you of the ability to dally with that tallywhacker of yours." Conar's face turned crimson at her use of the vulgar word, but he understood her command. "Now," she said. "Show me how well this man loves his woman, Milord Conar." He eased apart the laces of her bodice and slipped his hand inside. Her quick intake of breath as he molded his hand around her breast caused his manhood to leap in anticipation. He pressed her hand to the juncture of his thighs. "This man loves his woman more than any man has ever loved a woman in the history of time," he whispered. "You make it hard for me not to appreciate that." She giggled. Conar laughed and lowered his lips to her breast. "I will," he said, capturing the turgid peak between his teeth and speaking around the sweet obstruction, "make it harder still, Milady." Liza reveled in her husband's touch as he undressed her. A cool breeze drifted in from the window. For a moment, she worried about a passerby looking in, but as Conar's urgency increased, all thoughts vanished from her mind save the expert ministrations of her husband's sure hands. There was still sadness in his eyes, she thought as he smiled at her before molding his hard body over hers and nudging apart her thighs. She realized the tragic death of their son had humbled this proud man more than anything that had happened to him over the years. His touch was gentler, calmer, less hurried than in the past. His lovemaking seemed more tender than it had ever been. And if there was sadness in his azure eyes, then surely time would replace it with happiness when their next child was conceived. Saying a quick prayer to the Goddess, Liza asked that such happiness would not be long in coming for her love. It was a little more than ten months later that their daughter was born. *** He sat on the beach, staring out to sea. He had been there all day and Liza watched him. There was something disquieting about the way he just sat, his knees drawn up into the safety of his arms, his eyes on the farthest reaches of The Sinisters where the fog was the thickest. Her gaze had gone to him time and again during the day even as she turned away offers of intervention from among the natives and his men.

"He seems to want to be alone," she told them. "Let him." In her heart, she knew if he had wanted her company, he would have invited her to the high rock promontory where he kept his vigil. Near time for the evening meal, she handed their daughter to Gezelle, took a deep breath, and headed up the winding oyster-shell pathway to the place where her husband sat. He didn't turn his head as she approached, but she knew he was aware of her presence. Hiking up her skirt, she sat beside him and laid her head on his shoulder. "Worried about me?" he asked, his gaze on the sun as it sank gracefully toward the water. "No." He looked at her. One thick golden brow slanted upward. "Well…maybe a little, Milord." She snuggled under his arm so that he held her against his side. "Is something wrong?" His attention returned to the sea. "I've been having this feeling all day." "What kind of feeling?" He seemed to be weighing his words before he spoke. "I'm afraid." Her forehead crinkled. "Of what, Milord?" "That's what concerns me the most. I don't know. It's as though something is warning me to stay here, not to leave tomorrow." "If you want to stay, we will." "I can't, Liza. My place is in Serenia." He turned away. "But I fear in my heart that, if we leave, I will wish we hadn't."

Chapter 5 Liza watched as Conar stood facing the wind, his ripe wheat-colored hair blowing wildly about his head. He had a firm stance on the rolling deck beneath his bare feet. One sun-bronzed hand gripped the tall spar that rose beside him. He had left his shirt in the cabin when he had gone out earlier that morning, and a fine glistening of salt spray clung to his torso, mingling with the fine hair between his taut, manly breasts. He threw back his head and gazed at the sun. Liza wondered why he didn't seem to feel the chill of the late fall day as she did. The smile on his upturned face told her he felt little save the warmth of the love they had found once more. As though her thoughts had touched him, caressed him with their intensity, he looked at her. His smile deepened. He removed his hand from the spar, extending it toward her. Coming eagerly to his side, she snuggled into his arms, inhaling the sweet fragrance of salt spray, the aroma of the cinnamon scent he wore, and the pleasant smell that was entirely Conar. His strong arms enclosed her and she was content to feel the strength that held her securely to him. His lips brushed the top of her head before he laid his cheek where he had kissed her. "Is she settled in?" he asked, rocking her gently. "Aye, she is. Fed, changed, and being spoiled by whoeverhappens to go by our cabin." She smiled and chuckled. "Who would spoil her, Liza?"

She looked up at him. "Who, indeed, Milord?" "I've not spoiled her, Liza," he retorted. "Now, Storm and Sentian and Thom and Marsh and Gezelle have spoiled her, but not me. I will never spoil her. I will be wise and gentle and caring to her, instructing her in the courtly ways, teach her what not to do and say around boys. I will be—" "Putty in her hands." He grinned. "That, too." Laughing at the firm expression on her husband's handsome face, she tickled him. "I knewthat the moment you first laid eyes on her, Milord!" "Who is with her now?" he asked, easing away from her probing fingers. She laughed. "That most excellent and diligent of nannies, Marsh Edan." Conar nodded. "It's time he had a little one of his own. He dotes on her, doesn't he?" "That he does." She smiled thinking of Marsh's big hands cupping their tiny daughter the first time he had held her. "Will she break if I drop her?" the Elite had asked nervously. "Are you planning on dropping her?" Sentian snapped at his friend. A smirk lit Marsh's face. "Well, of course not!" "Then you've got nothing to worry about," Thom informed him. The four—Sentian, Marsh, Storm, and Thom—had been gathered around the babe's cradle, oohing and ahhing. None of them had seen Liza standing in the doorway as they gently picked up their Overlord's daughter and took turns holding her. "She's a beauty like her mother," Storm said wistfully, obviously missing his own wife and children. But it was Marsh who spent most of his time in the cabin with the babe, Marsh who held her and could make her stop crying when no one else could, Marsh who gazed at the babe with such longing and love. It was Marsh Edan, that stalwart Elite, who had stayed up with her all night when she had the colic. "I think if you give him half the chance, he'll steal her from us," Conar now remarked, hugging his wife as they stood in the brisk ocean breeze. "We've got to find him a wife." Once, he had thought of Gezelle for the warrior, but the two had never hit it off. If truth were told, it was Prince Chand Wynth who held Gezelle's attention. It was too bad such alliances were forbidden. Liza trembled. "Are you cold?" Conar asked, holding her closer. "Not really. I just…" She looked around, something nudging her sixth sense. "I don't know. I guess it's just that I'm still a little tired. Where's Brownie?" "Sleeping on the captain's bunk." Conar chuckled. "I think she has a crush on the man." Liza nodded absently. As her husband had the day before, she had been having sensations since early morn and the hairs along her neck were stirring. She looked at the horizon, but the sky was clear. Conar carefully eyed her. He had felt the tremor along with something else, something he couldn't quite name. He turned his scrutiny to the sky, a puzzled frown wrinkling his forehead. "Do you feel that?" he asked. "The vibrations?" He looked at her as she stiffened. She glanced up at him. "Then you feel something, too? The same as yesterday?"

"No, this is different. I've been feeling this ever since we cleared your coastline last eve and tacked toward Serenia." A grim expression settled on his face. "Something in the wind." He eased his arms from her and walked to the ship's rail, bracing his hand on the rolled teak edge. He looked out to sea. "I've felt it all morning." "And that's why you've been standing here." She put her hand on his forearm and felt his tension. "I feel as though someone is watching our every move." "Aye. Me, too." All morning he had been at the rail, searching, listening, probing with his newfound energy. During the time he had spent on the island, he had worked hard to learn about the powers bestowed on him at birth. With Liza's help, he had tested his magik and had learned to control it. Though it still frightened him, he had come to grips with it. Loath to use it, he knew that, should he need to, the power would be there at his command. But with giving in to accepting the magik within him, he had also given in to the premonitions and feelings inherent with such a supernatural ability. And today'sfeelings had only underscored the power he knew he could wield. The unease that had settled on his shoulders made it impossible for him not to sense the danger he knew lay ahead. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't tell what. He simply kept vigil, his senses attuned to air that was slightly charged with unusual vibration; the sensation played along his nerve-endings. Although everything seemed normal, his power told him otherwise. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nothing caught his attention. The sun beamed down to warm the cool day. Gulls flew by the ship, following at a discreet distance, and dolphins surfaced occasionally to call their greetings. All seemed oblivious to the undercurrents he felt. He glanced toward the western horizon and saw only the bright wash of blue and orange, but he felt a shiver go through him; at that exact moment Liza tightened her hand around his arm. She had felt it, too. "Do you know what it is?" she asked. Another quiver went through him and he tensed even more. "Go below, Elizabeth," he said, his gaze on the far horizon. "Why?" she asked, her eyes mirroring the worry she saw reflected in his. "I want you to go below." She touched his face. "You are my mate. I stand with you before whatever this is." "Did you feel that?" he asked as a sudden tremor of pure unease settled over him. "This is not some minor rift in the Veil, Liza. This is something evil heading our way." She looked to the far horizon, squinting. She trembled at his words. "You should be able to turn away whatever it is that lurks out there. I knew long ago your strength was much sharper, your power more refined than my own, although I believe mine is the more lethal." He looked away from her probing green inquiry. "It wasn't something I wanted, Liza." He shook his head in denial, frowning. "Once the gods give a gift such as ours, Conar, it can never be revoked, only lessened. It can be chained, be made dormant, but it will never entirely disappear. Those of us who are blessed—" "Or cursed." "It's not a curse. You just can't let it rule you, that's all." She saw his frown deepen. "Your power doesn't come just from the Red Path, Milord. It also comes from the White. From the Ancients who walked the Right Hand Way. Mine comes strictly from the Blue Path, from the Multitude. Since good and evil are mated, and then mixed with the Old Ways, our combined strengths are so powerful there is little we cannot either hinder or stop altogether when we are side by side." "The power Kaileel invested in me is purely evil, Liza. It corrupts. It destroys. It tried to destroy me! One day it just

might." "Only if you will allow it to do so. Or let it use you for evil." She touched his cheek. "There is not much chance of that happening. There is still a great amount of good in you." His head turned toward her. "So Tohre once told me. I hope that is true, for I will die before I let it corrupt me again." He took her arm and walked toward the hatchway. "Go below. Let's see how well the bastards taught me." She eased her arm out of his grip. "Let me stay until we know what is out there." "Elizabeth!" he warned, his voice brooking no argument. "Don't try me, woman! I have given you an order, Madame, and I expect you to obey me!" He watched her face redden, her nose tilt into the air, and knew he had said the very worst thing he possibly could have said. He had not meant to be so overbearing, to sound like a chauvinist, but the intense tremors shooting constantly through his body—his every nerve tingling as though he stood in a lightning storm—made him fear for her safety. His only thought had been to get her below before whatever calamity was headed their way could strike. Seeing the mulish look on his wife's face caused him to groan and look to the heavens. "Shit," he said under his breath. "I stay, Sir!" "Storm coming, Your Grace!" the lookout shouted from the crow's nest. The man was pointing to the southern sky. Heads turned. Dark, swooping clouds were boiling from both the southern and eastern stretches of the sky; blending, swirling, clashing together beneath the brilliant red globe of the sun, they filled the entire vista with an ominous sweep of foreboding. Lightning zagged from the heavens, demarcating the place where the black clouds overtook the bright blue sky. The clouds rolled, folded in upon themselves and a loud boom shot across the water toward the ship as another crack of lightning flared, hissing as it hit the water. A horrible stench wafted toward them. "Raphian," Conar said, grimly. He had known all along. They were coming at him with Their fiercest warrior, Their greatest killer. He had won their last encounter. Would he, could he, win this one? He looked at his wife with concern, but her face was calm, untroubled, and she met his gaze with purpose, a tiny smile on her mouth, a definitive glow on her lovely face. "I've often wondered what He smelled like." She wrinkled her nose as the brimstone stench and aroma of burning flesh came toward them. "It's as bad as I thought!" She raised her hand and make a lazy figure eight in the air. The faint smell of lavender filled the air, cleansing it of the noxious fumes of Raphian's coming. "I don't care for the odor, Milord," she said. He grinned. "Neither do I, Milady." Liza held out her hand. "Then, let's fight the bastard together!" He took her hand in his, feeling an immense surge in the power coursing through him. "It magnifies the strength when we touch, Milord. The Purple Pathway is opening, linking your power with mine. You will know what to do. The words are there, waiting for you to say them. You can close the Doorway into the Abyss without me, but with our combined strength, we can do it quicker and easier. You can send Him back." Looking out over the ocean, Conar felt his body tingling with the rush of adrenaline. His breath came in deep heaves. His head felt as though every hair stood on end. A pulling, drawing sensation filled him with concern. A feeling in the pit of his stomach brought bile to his throat. He could sense the Calling from the storm and tried to blot out the insidious, beckoning voice. Images of violent death

and blood flashed before him and he strove harder to stop the images from coming. "They call to you, Conar," his wife warned. "You can resist Them." "They'll not give me up so easily this time. Not with you beside me." His head began to ache with blinding fury, throbbing as though a million drums pounded inside. His mouth tasted of blood, hot and metallic, gagging him, turning his face a white plain of misery. "They are coming for you, beloved." She closely watched his face. "Fight Them, Conar. Don't answer Their Call. Don't give in to It." Her eyes were worried, for his had taken on a feral glare that put pinpoints of silver in the azure depths. Her entire being depended on this confrontation; her life, and the life of their child, might well depend on how well her husband could wield his magic. The smell of lavender intensified until the air seemed to bloom with the heady fragrance. The sea had taken on a murky green color, glistening with sparkles of light in its heaving, cresting depths. A sharp trill of high-pitched voices rose over the waves, echoing across the ship until the men put their hands over their ears to blot out its painful shrillness. "The Daughters of the Sea have come to fight alongside us, Conar!" Liza called. She saw him shiver, felt his hand jerk in hers. "They will aid you. You belong to Them, Conar. The Lady Warriors of the Deep, the Mighty Protectoresses of the Multitude will aid you." The siren call grew in volume. It filled the heavens, absorbing the boom of thunder and hiss of lightning that now fell only a few yards from the ship's bow. It drove men to run below decks to try to silence the eerily beautiful song wafting over theSeachance . Only the sailor in the crow's nest was left and he was nearly unconscious from the piercing sound. Conar felt the song flowing over him, strengthening him, calming him, drowning out the Calling of the other. The shrill cry did not bother him. He found the music pleasant, encouraging. He sucked it deep into his soul, held it, and took courage from the words in the melody. "No!" a terrible voice boomed from the heavens, setting the timbers of the deck trembling. "I will not allow this interference!" With a violent lurch, Conar felt as though his body was being torn apart. His stomach began to cramp much as it had during his initiation. He doubled over, going to his knees with the pain. He felt pulled from two directions at once and realized with a suddenness that left his head reeling that this had happened to him before. Two separate forces were tearing him, each wanting his very soul. "You belong to Us," a voice spoke inside his head and he wasn't sure if the voice was male or female. He reached out to grasp the rail before him, his nails digging into the soft, varnished wood. One moment he could smell the sweet, tender aroma of lavender, the next, his nostrils were assaulted with the stench of sulfur. "Come to Us, Conar!" That voice had been identifiable. It was the drooling hiss of the Storm God, Raphian. Conar shook his head, felt nausea gallop up his throat, and leaned over the rail to vomit into the heaving sea. He frowned at the sight of the water speeding away below him. It glowed a sickly green just beneath the sea's surface and the color was so intense, it hurt his eyes, made his head hurt even worse. He could have sworn he had seen his mother's face, Medea's, Raphaella's, and Meggie Ruck's—whose presence there made no sense to him—in the glowing water before another wave of sickness claimed him and he relieved himself of the burning bile. Liza felt the ship surge upward once, twice, and she grabbed at the railing. They were now in the outer reaches of the storm spiraling toward them. A sudden, quiet, deadly calm entered her body and she felt the throbbing presence of her familiar stoking the fires of their combined power—hers and Conar's. "So there you are, Vanion," she crooned. She had not felt its presence since Kaileel Tohre abducted her. She knew the familiar—a spry little old woman whose age was centuries full—had been sent back to her by the Multitude. "Teach me the spell to invoke the familiar the Sisterhood has given him. Let me hear it." Her body was buffeted by a sudden hard wind and she could hear a voice inside her head, warning her not to interfere. She raised her head and glared at the black clouds whirling by overhead. Again the voice spoke and said

vulgar, horrible things to her. Its insidious utterance draped over her like the slide of slime in a privy. It smelled of offal and clung to her psyche, made her feel unclean, turning her thoughts evil and vicious and vulgar. "I am not one of Yours!" she shouted in the face of the now-howling wind. "I am of the Daughterhood. You have no power over me! Be gone, demon! Leave this man alone!" Conar screamed in pain at his wife's words. His entire body felt hot and his belly cramped with an agony that made him grab his gut as he fell onto his side on the lurching deck. He was unaware of the few men climbing the shrouds to furl the sails, their ears plugged with scraps of fabric. He didn't hear their loud, frightened voices, their running feet on the decks. He didn't see his wife as she knelt down beside him, unable to touch him for fear she would contaminate the process of his changing. That he was changing, his body shedding what vestiges of evil had been instilled within it, was evident, in the way he trembled and shook, in the way his eyes glazed with ungodly pain, in the way his hands clutched at his own flesh. "Fight, beloved," Liza told him. "You can win!" He looked into Liza's face. He heard someone whispering softly to him, in his ear, but Liza's lips were still. He strained hard to hear. It was not one voice, but two, that spoke. "Fight, Conar," the first one crooned and he thought the warm, sultry voice sounded familiar. The image of a beautiful, desirable woman flashed across his mind. A woman he had kissed long ago and had feared greatly. "Fight," another voice urged him. "You can win, my son." He knew that voice! He swung his aching, throbbing head in the direction of the heaving waters. "Mama?" he managed to croak before another violent pain stabbed him, making him groan and sink to his knees. "You have no mother, fool!"a sharp, gruff voice shattered over the Prince. "You have only me!" "Fight, Conar!" Liza screamed over the keening wind and siren song. Conar looked at Liza and wished with all his being she would take him in her arms. He thought the pain might stop then. Looking at her, he was shocked. Her body was surrounded with a pale blue glow that seemed to be spreading outward, straining to reach him. Glancing at his body, he was amazed to see his flesh haloed with a dark scarlet aura pulled back from the encroaching blue glow heading his way. His flesh was white, he realized with horror; his skin glittering stark white as freshly driven snow and he knew Liza spoke true. The Ancients were a part of him, as well. "We are your Voice," a blend of male and female spoke to him. "We are called Seawind, and We are yours! Hear us, Prince of the Wind! Never shall the demons hold you to Them ever again!" "He is my chosen!" Raphian brayed, shouting down the others. "I own him!" Conar shook as the cacophony of voices came and he looked on with fascination as the colors from his body and Liza's merged, the White flooding out to take the Blue, to overrun the Red. As the three colors blended, he had only a glimpse of a deep lavender aura surrounding him before he felt an agonizing jolt swirling through him. He almost passed out as it shot through his body, winding into every passage, every organ, every pore. With a snap of fire running all along and throughout his body, he felt, rather than saw, the colored glow turn a deeper shade until his body took on a purple tint so deep it was almost black. His body tensed, grew rigid, his eyes rolling back in his head from the furnace-like blast of heat pulsing through him. "No, Conar McGregor!" the gruff, booming thunder shook the decks. "Come to us!" But the dark, forbidding voice was weaker, unsure. "Let us show you what can be yours!" "Protect him, Daughter!"Conar heard his mother urgently order. Conar saw his wife kneel beside him, felt her gathering him into her arms, taking his body against hers as the ship bumped them together in the swelling of the sea. Her aura darkened as their bodies touched. Conar turned his head away from her, away from the pale lavender haze of her aura that shifted with his every movement. He longed to go to the voice hissing in his ear, promising the unseen, unfelt delights of countless female

bodies. He ached to give himself up to the lure that shook his body with sexual arousal. Liza went rigid with fury. Her arms tightened around him. "Go back to Your hell, you venomous spawn of the Abyss. He is mine! You will never have him!" She turned her face from the sudden blast of noxious air that washed over her. "I am the only woman he needs!" "You'll not keep him, slut!" the voice told her. "He is ours! His flesh is our flesh!" She felt Conar trying to pull away and a sharp chill began along the edges of their combined contact. She pressed her body closer to his. "Feel me, Conar!" she commanded. "Feel the warm flesh of your woman! I am all the sexual pleasure you need. Feel my passion, Beloved. Feel my love surrounding you." Conar jerked in her arms. The look of pleading on her face hurt his heart. He could feel the softness of his wife's flesh, could smell the sweet fragrance of lavender. "No!" Raphian screamed over booming thunder. The Storm God's attention was on the dark purple aura surrounding Conar as the glow altered, grew dimmer until it would at last become the soft lavender that now formed over the woman. He shot out his evil and touched Conar McGregor with the one punishment designed to bring the man back to Him. Conar yelped as the cold, hard shaft of Raphian's demand impaled his soul. A quiver of loathing went through him as Liza kissed his lips. He tried to pull away from her. "I love you, Conar!" she cried, tears streaming down her ashen cheeks. "Stay with me! Stay with me, Beloved!" "Let him go, bitch!" Raphian ordered, furious that the glow around Conar was now almost lavender, signifying defeat. He howled with rage as He was expelled from the vulnerable flesh he had invaded. "Go to hell!" she shouted back and fumbled for Conar's hand. She placed his fingers to her breast, molding them around the softness. "I am flesh and blood, Conar. I am mortal. I am real!" Conar felt a heady sense of immense power shoot through him. As she gripped his hand, he knew the absolute endowment of the mystical knowledge that had lain dormant within him all those years, and knew, beyond a doubt, that he had held those powers in check since birth and beyond. His head cleared. His pain fled. His body swelled with love. He turned to his woman, a wavering smile on his cold lips. "Aye!" she cried with happiness. "Aye, Conar, aye!" He felt at long last the Omnipotence of a God-Chosen WindWarrior filling the sails of his soul and knew he could soar with the eagles in the sky if he wished. So great was the power flooding through him, he knew he could fade from where he lay and blend into the very keep at Boreas if that was what was needed. He pushed away the impaling thrust of Raphian's call. "It is called teleporting, Milord." Liza laughed, seeing the amazement of his ability reflected in his eyes. "It was how I could hide from you when I wanted!" Conar heard his men's anxious voices. He saw them scurrying about to make the ship ready to ride out the storm. The knowledge that his power was even greater than expected suddenly thrilled him to his very core. "I can fight him, now, Liza!" he shouted over the keening wind. "I can fight Tohre!" "Aye, my love." Her fingers gripped his. "And you will!" He brought her fingers to his lips and placed a fierce kiss on her knuckles. "One, Elizabeth!" he said through clenched teeth. "You and I: We are One!" The air turned sharp as ice around them, the stench of brimstone inundated the frigid air with its foul smell, yet underneath the cloying sulfur aroma lay the sweet scent of lavender. A stealthy silver, phosphorescent fog spread toward the ship from the port side. Liza shivered from the cold blast of foul wind buffeting them as Conar gained his feet and stood braced against the heaving deck. His blond hair whipped about his head and he turned a grim face to her.

"It is in our destinies, Beloved," she yelled. "We make our stand, together, here and now." Conar gripped her hand and turned to face the black boiling rumble of clouds filling the heavens. The dark cloud shimmered with red streaks like the fine capillaries in his flesh. "Come at me, you bastard," he growled. "Come at me and see what we have for You!" Streams of red fire shot toward the ship's deck from the black cloud hovering so close to his head Conar could reach into it. The cloud was alive with the determination to destroy the ship and all within, for the fireballs landed on deck, scorching everything, catching the wood on fire. A heavy blast of sulfur swept over the deck. A thick coating of pale yellow dust settled around Conar and Liza's feet. Sharp crackles of lightning singed the sky. Zigzagging ever closer to the vessel, the bolts hissed into the straining waves, lit the storm-darkened sky. The two lovers were illuminated in the flare of the electric flashes. They stood like roadblocks in the storm's way. "Give yourself up to the storm, McGregor, and I will let the woman live," the booming voice thundered. "Give yourself to us and the others on this ship will be saved, else I will turn it into floating cinders!" The siren song rose in a crescendo, vibrating the air, turning the sea to a solid sheet of silver fog. From the corner of the prince's eye, he saw the fog rise from the depths of the waters in ever-increasing height, lap at the ship's sides, crest on the heaving waves, then begin to seep slowly over the ship's rail. It flowed onto the deck, spreading along the wood, running through the thick yellow dust, pushing it aside as it floated toward Conar and Liza. It swirled upon the deck, circling Conar's ankles, flowed around the hatchways, lapped at the spars and ran into the belly of the ship, seeping silently, steadily, through the hatchway to the deck below. With it came the scent of lavender, growing heavy, blocking out the stench of hell-stone. With it came the soft tinkling of tiny silver bells and the seductive laughter of the goddesses who protected the ship and all those within her. An angry blast slammed from the boiling mass of clouds; falling missiles rained upon the sails and spars. Hail as big as Conar's fist struck the deck and tumbled about the ship's wake, plopping into the waves with dull thuds. "Conar!" Liza breathed with fear, for the hail struck with enough force to crack away part of the railing near her. She jerked back her hand. Conar turned, furious to see the falling balls of ice. He watched in horror as the crow's nest and its sailor got struck with a heavy barrage. The young man tried to shield himself, then screamed in agony as he fell backward, landing on the deck with a meaty thud, his head at a sharp angle to his body. "Damn You!" the Serenian Prince shouted to the snapping fire and ice pelting his ship. "Damn you!" the gruff voice of Conar's mortal enemy thundered back. "Beloved!" Liza screamed, sensing his fury. "Think not of anything but turning the mist around us warmer. Think of melting the ice rain!" Her hand jerked within his, effectively gaining his full attention. Conar glared with hatred as another sailor ran for cover, falling prey to the sharp, lethal ice that struck with deafening thuds against the deck. Looking at his wife, the screams of the dying sailor echoing through him, Conar squinted. "I will not let this happen!" "Then, stop it, Beloved!" Gathering his fury into one tangible line of thought, Conar willed the pulsating mist around his legs to gather the heat of his anger into itself. He felt a sharp impact on his left shoulder and flinched as a hailstone bounced off him. Pulling his wife with him as he bent to scoop up the frozen mass, he took it in his right hand, closed his fingers around the white-ice pain of it, thrust his fist toward the heavens, then squeezed as hard as he could. With his full attention on the ice, it instantly began to melt in his hand. He used his power to conjure warm winds and warmer seas. He felt the water running down his arm, the painful freezing of his flesh beginning to lessen. He felt warmth around his ankles where the silver, sparkling fog had once been chill and alien. He felt the mist heating, absorbing his red-hot fury, turning the air around him as warm as an early spring day. The perfume of lavender grew so intense it made him giddy.

He squeezed the hailstone harder and the air heated to the temperature of a late spring day. The perfume of lavender grew overpowering, making him giddy; he felt as though the aroma might put him to sleep. Although he heard Liza yelp when one of the flying missiles struck her, he didn't move. His full concentration stayed on the warmth. His breathing slowed; his heartbeat, once erratic and thundering, became a steady, rhythmic beat. He felt immense energy running through him and his hand no longer felt numbing cold. The fog lapping at his calves became as crisp and incandescent as a midsummer's morn. The hailstone in his hand had nearly evaporated and the air was almost sickeningly permeated with the too-sweet smell of lavender. "You're winning. Listen to the Great Lady, my child." His mother's voice was soothing. "She loves you well." When the last of the ice inside his fist disintegrated, the hail stopped. An angry hiss came from the mass of boiling clouds. Conar turned, triumphant, to the swirling blackness. His face took on an eerie green cast from the clouds. He glared into the looming face of the Storm God. The leathery, triangular head shot from the clouds and came nose to nose with the Serenian warrior. Conar smiled. "I win again, Raphian!" The slitted eyes tried to pull his soul into their hell-fire depths, but Conar stood his ground, fusing his stare with Raphian's. The demon bellowed with rage. Thunder boomed out of the tortured sky and swept over Conar with enough force to stagger him. The strength of the aftershock rocked him, and he lost his grip on Liza's hand. A foul smell, like nothing ever imagined this side of the deepest pit of hell, spewed out of the demon's gaping maw, covering Conar, leaving him wet, slick with its vileness. It lashed over him, sucked his flesh, tasted; it oozed down the waistband of his breeches and flowed down his legs, reaching with vile tendrils to caress his manhood. The stench made him heave with nausea, made him sick to his very soul. He felt the prickling sting of a million ant bites and groaned from the sudden, unexpected agony, going to his knees in pain. "Just a taste, my pretty!" the demon promised. "A taste of the hell you will soon know!" The heavens turned brilliant red, swirling in frustration. With a high-pitched screech, the clouds began to disappear into the vortex of the heavens, scuttling away from the ship like vermin deserting a plank of sinking driftwood. Scarlet from horizon to horizon, turning the churning waves a deep blood red, the sky pulsed brightly, blinding them, and then retreated, gathering into itself until the red tint was vacuumed into the heavens like a reversed waterspout. As the vortex fled to the far southern expanse of the heavens, the wind and noise ceased; the air grew tropically warm; the seas calmed; the sky became the soft color of Conar blue eyes. The siren song diminished, changing to the gentle trill of wind soughing through palm fronds, then drifted to the north like the mysterious St. Elmo's Fire sailors see in the distance of a late autumn day. At their feet, the mist swept back from Conar and Liza, receded along the deck, eased over the side as silently as it had come, and sank into the depths of the ocean. With its passing, the smell of salt spray returned, leaving only the barest hint of lavender wafting on the air. The sea resumed its normal shade of greenish-blue, and the waves lapped gently at the ship's hull. Conar stood on trembling legs, feeling the after-bite of insect stings tingling his flesh. Despite the filth coating him, he gathered Liza to him. He felt her shiver, knowing it was more from the exhilaration of their combat than any fear. He felt clammy with the smell of Raphian on his flesh, and knew he reeked of it, but he needed Liza's touch; he craved the comfort of her arms to remind him that they had won, together. His attention was locked on the section of sky into which the vortex had been sucked. A deep, abiding fury, an unnatural wrath, welled up inside him and he could tell Liza sensed it. His face was etched with hard lines; his breath was shallow, his heartbeat now erratic, faltering. He blinked as the silver mist that had been at his feet pulsed once, far out to sea, gaining his gaze as though in warning, and he looked at his wife, his hand cupping the nape of her neck. "Conar?" Liza asked, worried.

"Tohre has done many things to me, Liza," he said so softly his voice was but a whisper. "He has hurt me in ways too numerous to count. Now, he has killed because of me." He looked away from her anxious face to the two fallen sailors being carried away by crewmen. "He will have to be dealt with as soon as we get home." Liza shuddered. Something in his voice was foreign. His dispassionate, cold tone—colder than the hail that had fallen —was filled with an emotion she feared. "You cannot let anger control you, Milord. An angry man makes mistakes. We have to carefully plan our attack on Tohre so no others will be hurt by his evil." As she looked at him, she sucked in her breath. His face glowed with the promise of death.

Chapter 6 Kaileel Tohre, High Priest, Cardinal of Ordination for the Brotherhood of the Domination, the evil sect of sorcerers intent on destroying mankind, sat before the altar stone as his followers unstrapped the wrists of the hapless victim who had died for nothing. Aware of the other priests' feelings of outrage, fear, and disbelief, Tohre knew a frustration such as he had never before experienced. His defeat, as well as Raphian's second defeat, at the hands of Conar McGregor, was written on his craggy features. Beneath his scarlet robes, his body shook with impotent anger. The rage in his black soul screamed for vengeance. His hooded eyes followed the corpse as it was carried from the conjuring chamber and he looked at his hands, coated with blood. "What now, Kaileel?" Tolkan Coure, Arch-Prelate of the sinister sect, asked as he came to stand over Kaileel. Slowly Tohre looked at the Prelate. Intense hatred filled him, for he knew that he, himself, would have to pay for this. It would be his body that would be sacrificed to Tolkan's fury. It would be his flesh stripped away this eve. "I will bring him to his knees, Holiness." Tolkan turned his head, a lethal smile on his wrinkled, evil face. "Can you?" Kaileel stared at the old man; a sneer jerked his lips into a semblance of a grin. Spreading apart his hands, Tohre came to his feet and laid a hand on Tolkan's withered cheek. "With your help, of course, Holiness." A vengeful smile touched Tolkan's thin lips. It had been years since Tohre had admitted needing his help. "You underestimated him again. But something tells me you won't make that same mistake next time." He reached out a long, taloned finger to smooth Tohre's lower lip. "Will you?" With his gaze as steady as his stomach would permit, Kaileel took Tolkan's hand and kissed the chapped fingers. "No, Master. I shall not." "You see he can no longer be treated with any semblance of compassion, can't you, Tohre?" "Aye, Master. "He must be treated now as any enemy is treated. As Occultus Noire was treated." A lurch went through Kaileel's soul, but he bowed his head, knowing this would be the only way from now on. Conar signed his own death warrant when he aligned himself with the Multitude to defeat Raphian.

"You can see that, can't you, Tohre?" Tolkan prompted. Raising his head, Tohre nodded. "He has forfeited any right to leniency, Holiness. I shall see he receives no quarter when we go after him." Hours later as he lay on his bed, his scarred back ministered by servants, washing away blood caused by Tolkan's lash, Tohre stared into the distance. His jaw worked as he ground his teeth. "No, Conar. I will not make the same mistake with you again. This time, you will pay."

Chapter 7 Conar and Liza were unprepared for the welcome they received as they anchored in the harbor at Boreas Keep. It was dark, close to midnight, when theSeachance dropped anchor, but lights ranged all along the steep pathway leading from the docks, across the long wharf, out along the quay that led into the deeper waters where ships rode easy anchor in the North Boreal Sea. The stone barrier that separated the keep's crenelated defense walls from the wharf was dotted with burning rushes and lanterns, campfires. The people of Boreas, candles in hand, stood about the ledge between the defending wall and the waist-high wrought iron railing. The Serenian Guards, dressed in full regimental tunics, stood two feet apart along the stone steps winding up to the sea gate of Boreas Keep. A loud cheer went up as Conar's personal pennant was raised to the high mast, signaling the prince's arrival. The cheering grew even louder as Liza's own pennant ran up below it. "She's home!" a loud voice barked. "Our prince has brought his lady home!" Sentian Heil was the first to step foot on the wooden gangplank. He raised his left hand over his head, arched it to the right, then smiled, his loud voice calling over the sudden stillness. "Belias A Tobin!" The crowd roared in answer. "Belias a Tobin!" The war cry, Prince Conar's own, combined with the salute, filled the night like the boom of thunder. It was the symbol of Serenian might, a visible, vocal reminder that had served the populace of the land for centuries. It belonged to the firstborn male child of the royalty and stood for an allegiance signaling the force of arms wielded by the owner of the war cry: The Prince of the Wind. Conar looked at his wife with pride. He returned her radiant smile and let out a wavering sigh of relief. He was home; home, at last, with his woman at his side. Gezelle, Liza's maidservant, held out her arms to Liza. "She's awake, Your Grace." The birth of this babe had not been announced to the people. There had been no way to send word to either the keep at Boreas or to Seadrift, the Oceanian capitol. Even the arrival of theSeachance might well have escaped notice if a fishing trawler had not come up alongside the schooner earlier that afternoon. Forgetting all about their daily catch, the fishermen made a hasty trip back to Boreas with the news of the Prince's imminent arrival. Word spread along the docks like wildfire and by evening the keep's inhabitants were already lining up along the wharf. By nightfall, nearly the entire populace of Boreas Keep and the surrounding towns were waiting. "There is a babe!" one woman shouted, craning her neck to see around the tall man in front of her. "Our lady has a babe in her arms!" People shoved, jostling to see better, expectant, inquisitive looks on their stunned faces. There was not one among them who did not know of the princess' miscarriage and the death of her firstborn. Their loud buzzing sounded like the disturbed hive of a massive bee colony as they craned to see the bundle in Liza's arms.

"She does! She does!" someone yelled and people drew in their breath. "The Princess has had another babe! Look!" The speaker pointed to the high mast where a smaller banner fluttered under Liza's. A war cry shook the timbers of the quay as people voiced their happiness. Stamping feet shook the docks. *** King Gerren McGregor turned to his eldest illegitimate son and raised one thick silver brow. "It seems your brother wasted no time." Lord Legion A'Lex glanced at his father's stony face. "Does that bother you, Papa?" Gerren shrugged his massive shoulders, kept his eyes on the ship where his firstborn legal son and heir stood. "He needs to get his life in order before bringing babes into this world." The King looked at Liza's face and then at Gezelle's. "And for Conar's sake, it had best be Liza's bantling!" Legion's smile vanished. He prayed the babe wasn't the servant girl's. To dispel the thought, he turned to the king. "Didn't you realize Liza might well conceive while they were gone this long?" "I thought of it. I wanted him to stay on that island until his conduct changed. Perhaps it has; perhaps it hasn't. We'll see. If he's had no liquor, maybe things will be better." He swung his hawk-like gaze back to his eldest son. "Otherwise, I'll send him to live at Ivor. I will not put up with his moods and tantrums any longer." A'Lex's brow furrowed beneath the heavy sweep of his salt and pepper hair. He ran a hand over his beard and worry creased his chiseled face. The Vice-Commander of the Serenian Forces made himself smile. "Papa, Conar is home. Don't borrow trouble before the man even steps foot on Serenian soil." The King snorted. "If he causes trouble, again, Legion, it will be the last trouble he causes. I will snatch away his inheritance in the twinkling of an eye. Mark my words. Conar's days are numbered here if he does not toe the line. I'll have no more whoring, drinking or ill-temper. I'll give the crown to Coron." Legion closely watched his father as the older man stepped down from the wharf and onto the long dock leading to the quay. *** Teal du Mer, his lazy, gypsy eyes laughing with mirth, turned to Sir Hern Arbra, Master-at-Arms of Boreas Keep, and grinned. "Boy or girl? Fifty says it's a boy!" Hern eyed him suspiciously. He didn't care for the half-breed nobleman with his black shining hair and amber-tinted skin. He mistrusted the white-toothed smile on the dimpled, cherubic face. Teal had given him many a headache as a lad while training with him. He had also stolen more than a few gold coins from the old soldier. "I don't like wagering with you, du Mer!" Hern sniffed, his stony face breaking into a deep scowl. He squinted at the gypsy. "You have a tendency to cheat." "You have a fifty-fifty chance of winning, Arbra. What better odds can you have?" "I'll wager one hundred it's a girl," Legion piped up. "You're on!" Teal exclaimed, turning a dark, challenging brow to Hern. "And?" "All right, damn your hide, du Mer!" Arbra sneered, hating the gypsy smirk. "Hundred says it's a girl!" Gloomily he looked at Legion, but seeing the cocky grin Legion sported, he thought better of his wager and corrected himself. "Make that two hundred, gypsy!" He saw Legion grin harder, cock his head toward the ship. Hern looked, his eyes going wide as he saw what Legion meant for him to see. "Correction!" he snarled at du Mer. "Five hundred it's a girl!" "I'll take it!" Teal chortled. There hadn't been a royal-born girlchild in the McGregor line since Conar's aunt, Dyreil, sixty-two years earlier. *** "Papa is breaking tradition," Conar whispered to Liza, his face filled with sudden apprehension. He didn't trust the intense look on his father's face as the King came up the gangplank. "He has never come out to the ships to greet

anyone." Liza settled their child in his arms. "Smile, Milord. That look on your face shouts your anxiety." She turned to her father-in-law as he joined them on deck. "I am happy to see you, child," Gerren said as he took Liza in his arms, kissing her cheek with pleasure. "It has been too long." "We are happy to be home with you." She touched her lips to her father-in-law's cheek. "And we have a surprise." The pride and joy of motherhood flashed across her lovely face and Gerren heaved a sigh of relief. At least all was well for the moment. His gaze flicked slightly over his son and then settled on the bundle in Conar's arms. "My new grandchild?" Gerren asked, ignoring Conar. "We named her—" Conar stopped as his father looked at him. He cleared his throat. "We named her Nadia, Highness." Gerren nodded, acknowledging the name. "Your mother's middle name." He could see Conar's uncertainty, his wariness, but it didn't matter. He was still angry with the boy. A year's time could not diminish what Conar had done. Should the Tribunal ever find out, Conar would be severely punished for his affair with Gezelle, who now stood only a foot or two from her Overlord. Liza felt the coldness coming from Conar's father. She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "It would honor us greatly if you were the first to show our daughter to her people, Papa." Conar lowered his head. He had wanted to be the one to show off his child. He felt a twist in the region of his heart, but he knew his wife had meant well, trying to alleviate the tension between him and his father. If it would help, he would gladly relinquish the honor, but he knew in his heart nothing would help until he had a chance to sit down and talk privately with his father. Even then, he thought with fear, there might still be a serious rift between them. Gerren took the babe from his son. "It would be my greatest pleasure, child." As their fingers touched, the King grimaced with distaste. Even though he could see how much his reaction hurt Conar, he could do nothing to take back the unintended insult. He saw Liza put an encouraging hand on the boy's arm. "I meant no offense," Gerren mumbled and saw Conar nod in understanding. "None taken, Highness." The King realized his son had not raised his head. There was shame in the soft voice, a dejection in the slump of the boy's shoulders. "What have we here?" the king asked. He looked at the bundle nestled in his arms and put up an anxious and trembling hand to draw away the blanket from the girlchild's face. Gerren drew in his breath. Looking at the precious child, his firstborn legal grandchild, as of this day next in line to the throne after Conar, he marveled at the white-blond hair covering the small oval head. The perfect rosebud lips were pursed in a pucker; tiny bubbles lined the lower lip. When the tiny eyes, so blue and beautiful, so like those of her father at the same age, opened, the King felt the catch in his throat dissolve. His face broke into a warm smile of love. "Hello, pretty one." He planted a kiss on the smooth forehead. "She's a good babe, Highness," Marsh Edan swore from his place near the ship's rail. "Sleeps all the night through and never fusses." His face turned beet red as the King glanced his way. "Marsh has spoiled her terribly." Liza laughed. "He never gives her a chance to fuss, Papa." "I was thinking of discharging Edan from the Elite so you could hire him on as the darling girl's nanny, Highness," Thom Loure snapped. He glared at Marsh. "Leave the King alone, fool!" Gerren chuckled, clucking his tongue at the two Elites. He looked at his granddaughter. "Do you hear them, Nadia?" he questioned softly, running the tip of one finger down her cheek. "What shall we do with them, eh?"

"Your people are waiting, Majesty," Conar interrupted. His gaze was still on the planking. His voice was filled with pain, tears threatening to fall at the snub his father was giving him. The King barely heard the hurt in his son's voice. He barely heard Liza telling Conar that all would be well. All he truly heard was the sudden soft mewing the babe made as it gazed at him, a tiny smile hovering on the lips. "Shall I introduce you to your subjects, pretty one?" her grandfather asked. He looked at Liza, smiled, turned around, held the babe aloft, and spoke to his people in a carrying voice. "My people. I give you Prince Conar's firstborn child. The Princess Nadia!" Loud cheers rang out; hands clapped with enthusiasm. Feet stomped the wooden plankways and piercing whistles rent the air. A royal girlchild was a sign of prosperity, abundance, and fertility for the future of Serenia. To have a Queen sit upon the throne meant the land would be fruitful and the seas plentiful. *** Tolkan Coure glanced at Kaileel Tohre's set face as they leaned on the battlements of Boreas Keep. "Such clowning glee for a mere bitch." "She'll never take the throne," Tohre snapped, eyeing the Arch-Prelate with distaste. "But then, neither will her father." Kaileel looked away. "I understand that now, Holiness." "I am glad you finally do." Kaileel's flesh tingled along his lacerated back as he glared down at Conar. He shifted his gaze to the bundle in the King's arm. "That little bitchlet will pay for all of her father's mistakes." *** Teal's mind was numb with the news. "A girl? How can that be?" He sat on the stone steps and put his head in his hands. Legion slapped him on the back. "There was a fifty-fifty chance." Hern chuckled. "Pay up, du Mer! I have a very good place to spend your money!" He turned to a saucy wench who sidled close to him. "Five hundred coins will make what's left of this night very enjoyable!" Moaning miserably, shaking his head as he clapped his hands over his cheeks, Teal felt Legion prodding him with his boot. With a sullen look on his handsome, dark face, he glared up at A'Lex. "I hate you, Legion!" He reluctantly pulled his purse from his pocket. He sighed as he opened the drawstring and looked at his first real cache of coins in a long time. "I truly hate you." "I know," Legion agreed, holding out his hand. "Pay up." Teal sighed again then handed over the coins. He glanced at his friend and saw A'Lex grinning. There was something in the grin that boded ill for du Mer, who tensed. "What?" Legion wagged his eyebrows. "Did you take a close look at the babe's banner?" Teal looked toward the ship. He slapped the side of his head. The small banner showed up as pale pink in the flare of moonlight. "Don't feel bad, du Mer!" Hern said. "No one else noticed, either! Pay up!" He wrapped his beefy arm around the wench's slim shoulders and held out his free hand to du Mer. "My hunger needs feeding!" With a bitter look of resolve, Teal plopped five gold sovereigns into Hern's outstretched palm. "Enjoy!" He stood, thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders. Legion chuckled. "You're such a poor loser." "You cheated," Teal grumbled.

"I know." Legion draped an arm over Teal's shoulder. "Come on, old friend. Let's get a good look at our godchild." "Aye!" Hern released the wench. He winked at her. "Meet me at the usual place in about an hour, Dorrie. I've a younger lady to see!" *** Conar stepped back from the gangplank as Legion, Teal, and Hern came toward him. He moved into the shadows cast by the tall spars and leaned against the foremast. He smiled sadly as Hern took Nadia and brought the babe's face up to his own. He listened to the words being spoken to Liza, acknowledged the smiles sent his way by the three men, shook his head as Cayn, the Healer, lumbered up the gangplank and plucked the babe out of Hern's big hands. "Let me see our girl, Arbra!" Cayn bellowed, his small round face belligerent as Hern tried immediately to take back the babe. "Get away!" "They'll spoil her," Marsh sniffed. "She'll be up all night now." Conar nodded, unable to speak past the pain in his heart. He saw his father turn toward him, saw the frown gather on the regal visage, watched as the big man turned his back on him again. Conar lowered his head. "Go to him, Milord," Marsh said in a gentle voice. "Go speak with your father." "He doesn't need me, Marsh." The King turned. "He needs to speak with you, Highness," Marsh dared say. "It can wait," Gerren told the Elite. He smiled as Legion took the precious bundle from Cayn. Not looking at Conar, the King said, "On the day Conar was born, the Master Vintner put up a bottle of wine that his mother and I planned to open on the arrival of our son's firstborn." He glanced at Conar, who raised his head. "I plan to do that in her memory." Conar felt a lump in his throat as he thought of the tiny, golden-haired woman who had given him birth. "She would have been pleased." "With the babe, aye," King Gerren agreed. Pain twisted Conar's heart. "But not with me." "Not with you. You have shamed me many times, but your drinking and carousing after taking your Joining vows have caused me to lose respect for you. You have shown no reason why I should feel confident in your ability to govern your people when the time comes. You'll have to do far better for me to entrust Serenia into your keeping!" "I know you are angry, Papa, but…" "Anger does not begin to define my feelings. The more time I've had to think on your many perfidies, the less inclined I am to believe you worthy to sit the throne. We will discuss this later." With that, the King walked away. Liza wanted to cry. She could feel her beloved's sorrow like a silver flash of fire. She went to him and put her arm around his waist, drew him to her side. "He'll relent, Conar. You'll see." "I hope you're right, Milady." He looked past her, his vision straying to the battlements of the keep, and tensed. His eyes locked with Kaileel Tohre's even from this great distance. Conar could feel the promise in the look being sent his way. It was a feeling he knew all too well. *** King Gerren stared out of the window of his chambers, his hand resting on the high ledge. A shooting star careened

across the heavens. He closed his eyes. That often signaled a bad omen. "Go on." Conar was sitting in his father's favorite chair, his hands hanging between his spread knees. He looked intently at the pattern on the carpet. "I know you are still angry with me, Papa. What I did was—" "Unpardonable." "I suppose so." "Youknow so. You are not stupid." For a moment the room fell silent. Only the gentle ticking of the clock in the corner broke the quiet. Neither man spoke; neither man moved. It was Conar who could bear the stillness no longer. "Is there more wine, Papa?" Gerren flung his hand to the bottle on the low table beside the settee. Conar walked to the table, poured two more glasses of wine, then came toward his father with one of the two glasses. "You want me befuddled with this?" the king inquired. "I just think you'll need it before I'm through." His father poised with the glass to his lips, looking long and hard at his son before setting the wine, untouched, on the window ledge. "You have reason to believe I won't like what you're going to say?" A dark shadow passed over Conar's face. He seating himself in the chair once more. "I know you won't, Papa." "You think perhaps I will be even more angry with you?" the King inquired, his mouth set into a hard, unforgiving line. "Something like that," Conar acknowledged and stood again, walking to the fireplace and leaning his arm on the mantle, dropping his head to his arm. He stared into the firebox. Gerren folded his arms across his chest and raised his chin. "Say it and be done with it!" "It is not easy." "Have you cheated on your wife again?" The King was relieved when Conar shook his head. "Then has it to do with your relationship with Elizabeth?" He hated to ask for fear the union was once more on shaky ground. "In part." "Is there another woman?" "No, Papa." He looked at his father. "And there is no other man. It has nothing to do with my devotion to my wife or hers to me." "A devotion you but recently remembered." Conar took a deep breath. "What happened between Liza and myself was not entirely my doing." The King was aghast. "You blame your wife for your infidelity?" "That's not what I meant." "Then, pray tell what you do mean, sir! Don't stand there like a green youth who has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar one too many times. I will hear your confession now and be done with it!" "It was partly my fault." "Meaning what, exactly?" "I sent her away because I had…" He couldn't say it. "Because you had, what?"

Conar could hear his father's heavy breathing. He could almost smell the dislike and disappointment coming his way. He squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the anxiety crowding his mind, tried to force out the words through lips numb with fear. "For the love of Alel, Conar! Tell me what you have to say!" "I sent her away, Papa, because I had done something I was ashamed of." His father walked over to his son, and with a suddenness that stunned the younger man, grabbed Conar by the shoulders and spun him around. "Such as beating her?" "I never…" "You manhandled her! Do not try to deny that, Conar Aleksandro. I remember well those marks on your lady! We all saw the bruises!" Conar could see his father's anger building. A vein bunched in the King's temple and the grip on Conar's shoulders grew hard and unrelenting. "I never beat her, Papa!" "Then what did you do?" Conar hung his head. "I raped her that eve, Papa. That is where she came by the bruises." Gerren's mouth dropped open. His grip on Conar lessened somewhat, but he did not release his son's shoulders. His mouth worked, his lips moved. His face turned chalk-white. When he spoke, his voice was a mere whisper. "Rape?" He could barely say the word. "You raped your own wife?" "I was angry—" "Angry?" "It was more than that, Papa," Conar said, miserably. "It was as though I couldn't control what I was doing. I didn't know what I had done until after it was over. I may have been drunk; I don't know." King Gerren took his hands from his son. "That's no excuse. A man does not do violence to the woman he professes to love unless he has either a guilty conscience or suspects she has cuckolded him. You suspected her with Galen. Is that the reason you did her harm?" "Liza was innocent in that." Conar let out a long breath. "And, believe me, Galen has paid for what he did to my lady." "And Brelan?" the King demanded. "You thought her entangled with him. What of that?" "That was after the fact, but I have to admit I thought there was, but Liza was innocent in that as well, and, much to my relief, so was Brelan." He looked at his father. "If I had found out Brelan had slept with her, you'd have been minus one son, Papa." "If you knew she had not been unfaithful to you, why would you have…? Why did you…? How could you…?" The King glowered. "What kind of man have I sired?" Conar knew he had to get it over with. As much as it pained him to tell his father the whole of it, he could put it off no longer. He screwed up his dwindling courage and started his tale. "I have the Brotherhood of the Domination to thank for most of what happened. I have them to thank for what I did to Liza." He couldn't look into his father's eyes. "They caused it all." There was a long moment of silence as Conar's words sank like heavy weights into the room. A sudden chill came over the King. "What does that mean?" he asked, a tiny prickle of fear crawling down his taut spine. "What do those sorcerers have to do with anything you have done?" Conar blurted the truth while he still had a semblance of bravery. "I joined Them when—"

The King slapped Conar full across the face, staggering him and splitting his lip. When Conar tried to put up a hand to wipe away the blood, Gerren knocked it away. His hands went to the front of Conar's shirt to draw him closer. "What the hell have you done?" He shook Conar. "Tell me!" "Let me explain…" He felt his feet actually leave the floor as Gerren yanked his shirt. "You had better do more than explain! You had gods-be-damned well better be able to make meunderstand!" "They have been after me a long time, Papa. They—" He felt his shirt front twisted beneath his chin, the constriction painful as he gasped. "Papa, please! Let me…" Gerren shuddered. "Have you let that filth put their hands on you?" He shook his son again. "Have you let those bastards touch you? Is that why you never wanted to marry? Answer me!" What was there for Conar to say? He couldn't lie to his father, his King. He couldn't explain either. His father was in no condition to hear the reasons. "Answer me!" the king shrieked. He drew back his right hand. Conar made his confession in a rush. "They initiated me during the time I was gone from here." His voice was low and throbbing with hurt. "After Norus." Gerren stepped back, stumbling into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. He gawked. "Damn you to the pit and beyond, Conar Aleksandro! Did you not know what you were doing? Have you lost your senses?" Conar flinched. He took a deep breath. "Aye, Papa. I knew." "Youknew?" "Better than most." "How could you? What could have possessed you to do such a thing?" He could only shake his head. "If you will let me—" "Didn't you have enough power? Enough riches? Did you not have the woman you swore to the world you wanted? What more could you desire that you didn't already have?" "It had nothing to do with what I lacked, Papa." "Then, what?" "It's not what you think." "You were never ordained into the WindWarrior Society. Is that why?" Gerren's lip twisted. "You planned on allying yourself with that filthy bunch all along, didn't you?' "The Priesthood of the WindWarrior Society is controlled by the Tribunal, Papa." "I know! What has that to do with anything?" "And the Tribunal is controlled by Tolkan, and Tolkan is Arch-Prelate of the Domination." Conar could see the unreasoning fury in his father's eyes and knew the man wasn't really listening. "You tell me things I already suspected." "Think back, Papa. Think back to when you sent me to Corinth, to the Wind Temple to be trained. Who was it that encouraged my going? It wasn't you. It wasn't Hern; and it certainly wasn't Mama. She didn't want me to go. Do you remember who insisted I be sent there?" Gerren ground his teeth. "That is in the past. What difference does it make who—" "It was Kaileel Tohre, Papa. He wanted me there. It was him that took me, remember?" He took a steadying breath. "It

was Tohre who trained me." "I see no correlation—" "Certain boys are chosen during their training in the priesthood for special teachings. Those teachings are not given at the Wind Temple. You have to travel to the Great Abbey of the Domination for such training." A nagging fear began to sprout in Gerren's mind. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear anymore. "Tohre took me to the Abbey when I was six years old. I would have been consecrated to the Domination when I was thirteen if I had not tried to kill myself to keep from being used by them." A dawning horror spread out its roots in the fertile soil of the King's nimble mind. He began to shake his head in denial. "They abused me then, Papa. I never told you because I didn't want you to feel guilt over what had been done to me." Disgust shot up, branching out with withered arms to drag the King's mind into a shameful mire of repulsive thoughts. "It took them over twenty years to do what they tried to do, to attempt to finish what they started when I was a boy." Unrestrained fury hit the King like a bolt of lightning into the sturdy tree of his ordered life. He leapt forward, grabbing a handful of Conar's hair, dragging back his head. "Why did you keep such things from me?" He could picture Conar as a boy of six, crying, begging not to be sent away. He could see his wife's face, tear-drenched and sad as her son was lifted in Kaileel Tohre's arm and carried from the keep. "Why didn't you tell me what they had done?" Straining against the vicious pull on his scalp, Conar tried to shake his head. "Would you have believed me?" The King had to admit he probably wouldn't have. A child's wild tale of such vile behavior would have been hard to accept. The boy would have been examined, but even if the evidence of molestation had been present, who would have collaborated the tale? Tohre? Unlikely if he had been the instigator of such horror. "That does not excuse what you have done now!" the King shouted. "It was the only way I could get Liza back. Tohre was behind her kidnapping, Papa. He promised he would put her beyond Galen's reach if I would…" He stopped, the look on his father's face more than he could bear. "If you did what?" Gerren's lips pulled back over his teeth. He pulled hard on Conar's hair. The pain grew intense, the humiliation even worse. Conar could see the loathing, could feel his father's wrath on his scalp. He let out a wavering breath. "If I would let him—take me." Gerren let go of Conar's hair. He stepped back and regarded his son with repugnance. "And did you?" "I was rescued before they could put me through the final ritual that would hand me over to Kaileel." "Rescued by whom?" "I can't tell you." The King fixed Conar with a hard gleam of promise. "There has never been a McGregor king to sit on the throne who did not deserve to do so. There has never been one who has allied himself with the evil of the Domination, no matter the reason." He spat on the carpet. "And there never will!" Conar felt as though he been kicked in the gut. "What are you saying, Papa?" "You will never sit on the throne of this land. I will have you declared unfit. I will disinherit you!" "You don't mean that. I didn't go to them because I wanted to, Papa. I did so to protect my wife. Can't you understand? I have broken away from—" His father's shout made the glass chandelier rattle on its chains. "I don't give a damn why you spread your legs! That youdid is enough proof you do not deserve the crown."

"I was a boy, Papa! Only six years old. I was—" "You could have stopped it from happening if you had tried. You could have run away; you could have told someone at the Temple. That you didn't tells me you must have liked what they did to you!" A look of pure horror flashed over Conar's face. He stared at the man with incredulity. Did his father really believe he could have prevented his childhood abuse? "And going to them once you were grown, knowing what they do, knowing what they had done already, you still embraced that…" The King flung a hand toward the heavens. "What thattells me is you are no better than any of those evil bastards and you let them rule you." White lines of fury circled the King's mouth. "I will not allow that filth to dictate Serenia's future. I will make sure it does not happen by disclaiming you!" He left the room, his angry strides carrying him down the corridor, away from his son. Conar's blond head bent in guilt. At a movement in the opened doorway, he lifted his head. Kaileel Tohre smiled. It was a slow, steady stretch of the thin, colorless lips, a grimace of laughter in the skull-like face. He grinned. "So, it has begun, Conar. Your downfall. Your father will disown you; your family will desert you; your friends will turn their backs to you. And finally…" The grin turned malicious. "Finally, your wife will betray you. A fitting punishment, wouldn't you say?" Conar didn't answer. He knew Tohre didn't expect him to. He simply looked at the man, hating him with every fiber of his being. But the small boy who had so feared Kaileel Tohre still had a grip on Conar's bravery. That abused little boy backed down from the threat posed by the High Priest instead of allowing the grown man with his newfound powers to destroy the evil before him. "I'll see you in hell, my sweet Prince," Kaileel cooed. "And very soon, too."

Chapter 8 Legion and Teal found their Prince sitting morosely on the stairs leading to the upper chamber. Conar hadn't slept all night, as his rumbled shirt and breeches could attest. There were dark circles under his eyes and his set expression only made him seem more formidable as the two men came to lean against the banister. Conar turned to them, none the better for several large mugs of ale Sadie, the keep's cook, had earlier provided. His only acknowledgment of their presence was an ugly snort. Legion sat beside him and draped a massive arm over his brother's slumped shoulders. "Back to being your normal ill-mannered, boorish self, are you?" He winked at Teal over Conar's head. "Did you and Papa fight last eve?" Conar shrugged away Legion's arm. His temper was near the boiling point and his head ached unmercifully. Nausea clogged his throat; his tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth. He had been sitting on the stairs, fully intending to see his father even if it took all morning, and he felt like a fool, worse for having done so. "I am in no mood for your barbs, A'Lex." Teal grabbed his heart. "Oh, 'tis worse than we thought, A'Lex!" Conar glared at Teal. "Have you nowhere else you need to be at this time of morning, du Mer?" Teal grinned. "No." "Can't you find somewhere to be?" "Nowhere that would interest me."

"How does a night in my dungeon sound?" "Oh, so it's like that, is it?" Legion laughed. "You'd better scoot, du Mer, before His Royal Pain has you stretched on his rack! I can bother him just as well without you." Teal chortled. "He might ship you off to his jail, A'Lex!" "He wouldn't dare." Turning his head to look steadily at his brother, Conar's upper lip curled in scorn. "You think not?" "I know not, little boy," Legion scoffed. He glanced at Teal. "Run along, du Mer. I'll watch over him." "Careful of him, A'Lex," Teal warned, his eyes dancing like the fires in a gypsy camp. "His bark seems dangerously potent this morn." "His bite is worse!" Conar mumbled. Legion held out his arm. "Care to chomp off a little piece?" Conar let out an annoyed breath. "Careful what you say to me, A'Lex. 'Tis not a good time to play your asinine games." Something in Conar's face made his brother realize that some accursed thing had disrupted the joyous reunion. Conar was back to acting as he had before going to Oceania and his breath smelled heavily of ale. "What happened?" Legion sighed. "Leave me alone. Please. It's too complex to explain. I'm waiting to speak with Papa." "I suspected as much," Legion answered, folding his arms across his chest. "He won't appreciate you smelling like an ale house. You've been warned about how much liquor you drink." "That's none of your business. Or his!" Legion shrugged. "I wouldn't say that. I'm concerned for you." "Don't be." "Can't help it. Comes with the territory." Legion glanced up at the closed door leading into their father's suite of rooms. "Locked you out?" "He's angry at me." "He's always angry at you. The trouble is the pair of you are too much alike." Conar snorted. "He wouldn't agree with you." Legion was about to answer the cryptic remark when Sadie MacCorkingdale came waddling toward them, two mugs of hot buttered rum on a silver tray. "Thought you could use some refreshment." The old woman giggled and turned the tray so Legion would be forced to take the mug nearest her right hand. "I don't want any," Legion said, frowning at her, "and I don't think he needs…" He didn't get to finish, for Conar grabbed the other mug and brought it to his lips, taking a long draft, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Legion's frown deepened. This early in the day? That wasn't a good sign. "Go easy on that, will you?" "I need it." "Why?" "He says he's going to disinherit me."

Whistling softly, Legion stared at his brother. All too aware of Sadie's keen interest in the prince's words, he turned to her with reproach. "Is there something else?" The old woman grinned as she watched Conar drain the mug of rum. "I did what I came to do." She waddled back to the kitchen doorway. "What the hell did you do, now, Coni?" Legion asked as Sadie closed the door behind her. Squeezing his eyes shut, Conar leaned his head against the wall beside him. "In his eyes I have shamed him. I did what I thought best for my wife's welfare. He doesn't see it that way or else he does not want to see it. By the gods, Legion, I didn't think there was any other way." "But he damned well should have sought one nevertheless!" came a harsh voice. The King stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at his sons. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides. His face was mottled with anger, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from what could only have been the result of hard crying. "Papa," Conar said, "let me try to explain—" "Legion, tell your brother I have heard more than enough to last me a lifetime!" Conar opened his mouth to speak, but Legion hushed him. "I have no idea what's happening here, but I'll speak with Papa. This can all be worked out. Go to your room and—" "That man is not welcome in my presence, Legion! You will see that his things are removed from this keep. Where he goes, I don't care, but I want him gone before the sun sets!" Legion shot to his feet, his mouth open in shock. "Papa!" "Do you disobey me as well?" the King shouted. "If you do, then you may join that man in exile." He came down the stairs at a hard pace and shoved Legion to the side. "Do as I say. Remove this foul son-of-a-bitch!" "You will regret this, Papa," Conar said so softly Legion had to strain to hear the words. King Gerren didn't look at Conar. "Legion, inform him that the only thing I regret is that I ever sired him!" Continuing on, the King waited for Hern Arbra to open the big double doors leading into the courtyard. The Master-at-Arms had only just come in through the oak portals and stood still, worried as he glanced past his King to the men standing on the stairs. "What's happened?" Hern asked. Before his father could clear the threshold, Conar came off the stairs and shouted, his words slurred from the effects of the rum and ale. "I will be King here!" He watched his father's retreating back. "It is my birthright. I will not allow you to take it away! I will see you dead before I will let that happen!" Legion stared at his brother, thankful their father had not heard the threat. "Conar, that's treason!" "Call it what you will. I will not be denied what is rightfully mine." *** "I can't find him anywhere, Commander," Thom said gloomily. "My men have scoured the village and taverns. No one has seen him." "Is his horse in the stable?" Teal asked. Thom nodded. "I've already checked." "Have you found out what caused the rift between the King and Conar this time?" Marsh inquired. He, like the others, stood milling about the outside entrance to the keep. Legion shook his head. "Papa wouldn't discuss Conar with me. He said if I wanted to know, to ask my brother." Teal glanced at him. "It must have been bad."

"Bad enough to warrant him being disinherited," Legion shot back. Sentian Heil was propped up against the wall beside the front entrance. He knew. He had known since the ship ride to Oceania a year earlier. Obviously, the King had taken the news as the prince expected, only with more retaliation and vengeance. Storm Jale came through the big double doors from the keep's interior. His face was white with shock. "Tell me it isn't true, Legion. Tell me His Grace hasn't joined the Domination." "Where the hell did you hear that?" Legion snarled. "I know it can't be true; but I heard it straight from His Majesty. He sent me to get High Priest Tohre and I heard them arguing. The King told Tohre he would see the priest in the Abyss for what His Grace had been forced to do. He said His Grace was being disinherited. Tohre told him that was just as well since His Grace would soon be leaving for the Great Abbey of the Domination to fulfill his obligations to them." Legion sat on the stone steps. "I don't believe this." "Makes sense," Teal remarked. "If Conar has joined that bunch, his father is well within his rights to take the throne from him." Sentian raised a thick dark brow. "He did what he had to do." "I disagree," Teal shot back. "There's no acceptable reason this side of the Pit." "There has to be more to it than what appears on the surface," Legion said. "There is," Sentian assured him. "He did it to protect his lady." "But still—" Marsh began. "Still what?" Sentian thundered. "Are you condemning him, too? What do you know of his motives, Edan? You were at Norus, weren't you? You saw how desperate he was to get back his lady. He felt he had no other choice. Those bastards didn't give him any other option! Where the hell do you think he ran off to that day?" "But the Domination, Heil!" Teal argued. "He has always hated them. How could he let himself be used like they use one another?" He shuddered, remembering vividly what his older brother, Roget, had told him about the secret sect. "They do unspeakable things!" Sentian sneered. "And you think because he joined them he's doneunspeakable things?" "Or let them be done to him," Teal mumbled. Heil's voice was deadly calm as he glared at du Mer. "I thought you were his friend." "Easy, Sentian," Thom warned. "Du Mer has a right to his opinion." Sentian fixed the tall man with a look of hatred. "Opinions like that could get His Grace exiled!" "He should have thought of that before he allied himself with that trash," du Mer shot back. Sentian looked from one man to the other. "Do you all feel like that?" Thom and Marsh looked away, unable to accept the challenge they saw written in Sentian Heil's dark eyes. Storm Jale looked away, too, his mouth hard and bitter. Teal glanced at him and then looked to Legion. "You're deserting him. Turning your backs, is that it?" Sentian quivered with rage. "And I suppose you also believe he means his threats to take the throne from his father." He snorted before spitting. "If you think that, then you don't know him. He was angry. Hurt. Who could blame him?" "He threatened his King's life," Legion reminded him. "No matter how angry you get, that's treason. The Tribunal won't let such a thing go unpunished."

Sentian gaped. "You're deserting him, too?" "It's not a matter of desertion. If Conar has joined the Domination, he can't be allowed to sit on the throne. Papa was right in disinheriting him." "The man is your brother!" Sentian gasped. "I haven't forgotten, but I would just as soon it not be true if Conar has, indeed, allied himself with that bunch." Disbelief shot across Sentian's angry face and he stepped off the portico. "He needs you men more than he ever has and you have all forsaken him." "He should have thought of—" "Lord Legion?" a voice called, interrupting them. "What?" Legion bellowed, turning to pierce the man who dared interfere. Taken aback by Legion's sharp tone, one of Conar's Elite looked to the other men in question, but no one moved. No one spoke. He looked back at Legion. "I found him, Commander." Aware of Legion's grinding teeth and clenching fists, Teal spoke. "Where?" The elite chuckled. "In the grotto. He was sound asleep when I found him. He had a bottle or two of ale to keep him warm, I guess." "Is he all right?" Sentian asked. "A bit hung-over and a lot put out because I found his hidey hole." The warrior scanned the faces of the men and wondered why no one but Heil seemed particularly happy to know where their Overlord passed the day and night. "Has something else happened?" "You heard he threatened his father?" Thom inquired. The Elite smiled. "Aye, but I bet that was the liquor speaking. He didn't mean it. He was angry." "There's more to it," Marsh said in a hopeless voice. "You see he…" When the Elite was told the whole story, he turned a silent face toward Legion, stared at him for a moment and then looked to the others. "You all blame him for having tried to protect his lady?" "Blame is not the word," Teal corrected. "The word 'criticize' is more like it." "Isn't that the same thing?" Teal shook his head. "I don't blame him for wanting to protect his lady-wife; I do criticize him for the way he went about it. I find I cannot condone what he has done, no matter the reason." The Elite looked to Sentian and saw that man's loyalty still blazing in his face. "So instead of backing him, they turn away." His brown eyes turned hard. "He would never do such a thing to any of us. Once his friend, always his friend!" Marsh Edan sat on the steps and stared at the cold stone. Barely aware of Legion, Teal, and Thom leaving, he looked up briefly as Storm slapped him on the shoulder. "I think this is one time when His Grace has gone a bit too far," Storm sighed. Storm strode off, Sentian close behind. Neither spoke to the other, but their body language clearly made it obvious they were both angry with each other. Edan put his head in his hands. The men had lost more than their faith in their Overlord; they had lost the one real constant in their lives. Conar McGregor's steadfastness in the face of wrong. It was not something that could easily be regained. There was nothing more evil, more perverse, more worthy of loathing than the Brotherhood of the Domination. To the men, Conar was now one of that evil bunch.

An enemy. Storm looked up and saw Kaileel Tohre staring at him from the Temple steps. The High Priest crooked a finger and Storm sighed. *** Along the coastline, beyond the high rock promontory upon which Boreas Keep sat, wound a pathway strewn with sharp, loose rocks. It curved upward from the beach, over a natural stone bridge arch and then ran parallel to the steep incline of Mount Serenia. The path gave a dizzying view of the crashing sea some thirty feet below. Twisted trees, gnarled with age and the relentless hammering of the harsh North Boreal Sea winds, dotted the path at irregular intervals. Their stark branches dipped down almost to the pathway in some places and soared high overhead in others. The crashing waves lapped over portions of the pathway. Spraying foam and cold droplets of water even soared over the natural arch of stone bridge, making a thunderous sound, a deadly sound that warned many an unsuspecting viewer of the dangers; some had fallen to their death on the sharp, up-thrusting rocks far below. Around one particularly treacherous turning in the path, the rock face rose up to blend in with the umber-colored mountain above. Hidden beneath a natural curtain of thick foliage, tumbled rock, and dead vines stood an archway into a silent world of surrealistic beauty known as the Widow's Grotto. The sand underfoot was crystalline, pure and soft. The only light came from deep within the cavern and the cavern's atmosphere was mysterious and alien, but oddly comforting. Deep shades of green and blue light played over the sparkling sands and the ceiling above was lined with milk-white and chartreuse stalactites dripping downward. Silent and still, save for the churning hum of the ocean and the soft whoosh of an errant breeze, the cavern glistened with a charm that compelled a visitor to venture deeper within the chill walls of the tunnel. Entering this calming world, Sentian was struck with the unreal quality of the beauty before him. As he cleared a turn he heard the faint rumble of the ocean purring beneath his feet. He felt the slight breaking of the waves in the cavern, making the walls vibrate as he placed his hand against the moist surface. He saw the eerie milky-green glow of the Grotto as he passed beneath a second archway, bending down to clear the height. He had been going steadily downward, and now as he stepped from the stone ledge onto the grotto's actual floor, he was washed in the same green glow as the walls. A wide pool of pale green water—seemingly lit from beneath by some alien light—sat off to the far right side of the cavern. Stalagmites circled portions of the pool and spread out to curve gently around the walls. A small fire burned steadily near the pool; a blanket lay beside it. Several bottles of what must have been ale were strewn about the sand; two bottles bobbed on the water's surface. He was aware of a faint light cast by a torch hidden around the break in the wall. As he watched, a shadow emerged from the break and Heil was relieved to see his Overlord. Conar glanced up, not appearing to be surprised at seeing Sentian. "How is my lady?" "Worried about you." "Does she know where I am?" Sentian smiled. "Wes probably went to tell her. He cares deeply for you, Conar." "I care for him." Sentian cast inquisitive eyes down to his friend. "Will you try to talk with the King again?" For a long moment, Conar didn't speak. Then a soft whisper came from his dry throat. "I think not." "This is your home, Coni," Sentian protested. "He should not send you from it."

"I have no place here," Conar said with bitter hurt. "He has made that abundantly clear to me." He had spent the night in this chill place and finally come to the conclusion it would be best if he and Liza left with their daughter. "I'll not stay where I'm not wanted." Sentian's face turned sad. "Wherever you go, my family and I will also go, Milord." Conar shook his head. "Your place is here, Senti. Your farm is here; your family is here. I will not ask you to leave." "You haven't asked. I have offered. Besides, I am Her Grace's sentinel. I must be with her." Conar smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "I can see your point." "She might have another view of things. I cannot see our lady running from anything." Conar looked up. "Our lady?" he questioned softly. Sentian blushed and ducked his head. "You know what I meant." He put out a hand to clasp Sentian's shoulder. "Aye, my good friend, I do." He squeezed Sentian's flesh. "Did I ever thank you for coming to the Abbey, Sentian?" The blush deepened on the Elite's face. "There was no need. I will always be there for you, Milord Conar." "And go with me where I will, eh?" came the sorrowful question. "If you insist on leaving, then I, too, will leave." "Where are you going to go?" a voice called from the archway. Conar flinched. The voice was that of his eldest brother; the tone was that of a stranger. He looked up at Legion and shrugged. "Does it matter?" "Papa didn't tell you to leave Boreas. He just told you to vacate the keep." Conar could see the disappointment in his brother's bearded face. "Papa doesn't want me here and I'll not stay." "Then, go," Legion snapped, "but don't leave the country. That's the coward's way. You are no coward." "There are those who will say that is precisely what I am." Legion snorted. "Those who matter know differently." "Those who matter won't care," Sentian grumbled. "Shut up, Heil," Legion ordered. "Things are bad enough without you putting your two coins in." Sentian's lip curled. "Seems there are those who refuse to understand just how bad things really are!" "Let it rest, Senti," Conar said quietly. "The man doesn't want to see how things are with you, Conar! He looks the other way while those who you think love you turn their backs on you!" "They only echo what their king feels," Conar muttered. "You do understand, don't you?" Legion felt compelled to clarify their father's position. "He can't allow you to take the throne if you are allied with Tohre. The people wouldn't accept you. They wouldn't trust you." "Who says so?" Sentian snapped. Legion pointed a finger at the Elite. "This is between my brother and me! He's done wrong and he knows it!" "He is guilty of nothing but great love for his lady! You would have done the same had it been required of you."

"Tell this man to be quiet, Conar!" Legion demanded. "Do you really want him to hear this?" Conar didn't answer. His face mirrored the pain in his heart, for he could hear Kaileel Tohre's words ringing in his ears: "Your father will disown you; your family will desert you." Sentian was the only friend who had shown him any kind of understanding, who apparently had not turned his back. "I'll go if you want me to, Milord," Sentian vowed. Conar shook his head in denial. "Stay." Legion ground his teeth. "So what do you do? If the Tribunal wants to, they can call a disciplinary court and have you censured. I doubt they will exile you, but you can't be sure. If you have to stand before them and answer any charges, it would be best if you were close by. If you travel far, they might think it an admission of guilt." "Believe me," Conar snorted, "they know all about what is happening, Legion." "You'd better hope they don't!" Conar looked away. "What hope I had has been taken away." "So, you plan to tuck your tail between your legs and slink away. Is that it?" "I plan to take my wife and daughter and leave this country. And never come back." A stunned look passed over Legion's face. "You can't possibly be serious!" "I'm very serious." "I won't allow it!" Legion roared. He might be angry at his little brother, but he didn't want to spend his life without him. Chuckling sardonically, Conar glanced up. "And how do you propose to stop me?" "Lock you up if I have to!" "In the dungeon?" "In the armoire, if need be!" There was a trace of a smile on Legion's face, his lips pursed in a tight line to keep from laughing. "I have before." "I remember. I nearly suffocated." "Before Brelan let you out." Legion laughed. He watched the light grow bright for a second in Conar's pale eyes as they both remembered the childhood incident. "At least I kept you from running away then, too." A shadow fell over Conar's face. He recalled the reason he had meant to flee his home. It would've been better for everyone concerned if he had escaped. "I was six, Legion. I am a man, now." Legion smirked. "At times, anyway." "I know what I have to do." "Why did he lock you in that…" Sentian frowned. "That thing?" Legion cast the man an annoyed look. "It's none of your—" Conar held up his hand, then explained the circumstances. "I had been told that High Priest Kaileel Tohre was going to take me to the Wind Temple at Century for my initiation into the WindWarrior Society. I didn't want to go so I told Legion I was going to run away." He looked at his brother. "That was a mistake. Legion thought he was doing what was best for me so he locked me in the armoire in my room and went to find Papa. He had no idea how afraid I was of the close darkness inside that thing. I couldn't seem to breathe. I couldn't get out. Brelan heard me screaming and thought it was funny until he didn't hear any sounds at all coming from the chest."

Legion's face darkened. "Brelan pulled him out just in time. No one ever knew just how close Conar came to dying. He wasn't breathing." "Brelan literally breathed life back into me. It was the only time in our lives that he and I were even remotely close." Legion lowered his eyes. "You can imagine how surprised I was when Papa and I came into that room to find Brelan holding Conar, rocking him, absorbing the terrified shudders that were racking Conar's little body. I had almost killed him. I almost killed my own brother." "The key word there is 'almost,'" Conar whispered. "I don't want you to go," Legion said grimly. "No more than I did back then." Sighing, Conar looked hard at his brother. "I don't want to go, but no one seems to understand what I did. Not even you." He saw the hesitation in Legion's eyes. "I can't remain here cut off from my family and friends. I take it that's why Teal and the others aren't with you." The guilty, sullen look that came over Legion's face told Conar all he needed to know. The others felt the same. They wanted nothing to do with a man who had become mired with the evil of the Domination. Kaileel's mocking words rumbled through him once more: Your friends will turn their backs on you. "They were upset when they learned what you'd done," Legion qualified. "They condemned him without even speaking to him, you mean!" Sentian corrected. Nodding his head in acceptance, Conar stared at the shimmering walls. His gaze fell on one of the wine bottles and he snaked out a hand to grab it. Legion frowned. "You've taken quite a liking to that stuff over the years. Too much of a liking, I believe. It may well be at the root of your problem." "Don't start," Conar sighed, uncorking the bottle Sadie had sneaked to him. He took a long, healthy pull on the heady contents. His eyes clouded almost instantly, and the taste he'd come to recognize seemed stronger in this bottle than all the others. He felt an immediate anger start to gather in his gut. At a sound from the doorway, all three men turned. "Wes told me where to find you," Liza said as she came into the Grotto. Conar beckoned for her to sit beside him. "We will be leaving, Milady," he told her as she sat down, coming into his arms. "I will go wherever you wish." Sentian got to his feet and brushed away the loose sand from his cords. "How can I help?" "Have theSeachance readied for us," Liza answered. "Tell them we will be going home on the tide tomorrow morn. Find Gezelle and see if she wants to go with us. If not, then ask Aurora if she would. I will need help with Nadia. There's no need to pack anything. What we need, we will get in Oceania." "I'll let him do those things on one condition," Legion joined in. Conar scowled at him. "There will be no conditions." "There will be one!" Knowing it was totally useless to argue with his brother, Conar inclined his head, one tawny brow raised in silent question. "You will let me hand pick six of your Elite to accompany you. Men who are loyal to you. You made a threat against your King. There will be those who will look at it as high treason." Thinking over the condition, Conar capitulated. He could see the wisdom in what Legion was saying. "I agree."

Nodding in relief, Legion told him, "Roy Matheny and Lin Dixon will want to be among the men." "No. They have family." Conar's anger began to surface. "I want men with no ties to Serenia, no wives to ask about leaving their homelands." "What of me?" Sentian asked, hesitation lacing his voice. "You are no longer an Elite." "Why?" Sentian said, his hurt evident. "Because there will be no more Elite Guard," Liza answered. Her smile was warm. "His Grace wants you to go as his friend; not as his guard, Senti." She turned to Conar and saw him nod. Gathering tears slipped down Sentian's cheek. He swiped at them without realizing it. "I will take care of everything, Milord." "See that you do," Conar snapped and turned to pierce his brother with a stony glare. "I would just as soon as few people know about this as is possible. I have enemies here." Legion looked at him for a moment, not sure why his brother's face had turned so hard, so cold. "I'll use only men we can trust to go with you, but it'll be hard not to arouse suspicion while the ship is being reprovisioned." "That is an Oceanian ship destined for its homeland," Conar snarled. "That's all the curious bastards need be told!" Legion looked first at Sentian, then to Liza, his face narrowing with hurt. "I can handle it, Conar." "Let's hope you can!" Sentian asked, "Is there anything else?" "Go," Conar instructed, flinging out his hand. "The sooner things get it done, the sooner we can leave this fucking place." If Sentian was shocked by his Overlord's language, he didn't show it. He hurried from the cavern. Biting his tongue to keep from chastising Conar, Legion shook his head at Liza. A'Lex was seething inside and it wouldn't take much to wipe off the surly look that had come over Conar's face. He shrugged his massive shoulders and turned to follow Sentian. Easing away from Liza, Conar stood and walked to the water, knelt, scooped up a double handful of the milky green fluid, and splashed it over his face. "I feel like hell," he told his wife. Eyeing the empty bottles strewn about, Liza smiled, but it was a smile filled with concern for him. "I've no doubt you do, Milord." After shaking his head to fling away the water, he look over his shoulder at her. "You don't mind being a renegade with me, lady?" "I would rather you stay here and fight for your rightful place, but if leaving is what you think best, I will gladly go with you." Her tone let him know she thought what he was doing was wrong. Standing, Conar glowered at her. "You think I'm running away?" "Isn't that what you're doing?" "No!" he spat. "I'm leaving before any real wedge can be driven between my father—my King—and me! Maybe once he cools off, he'll realize he was wrong." "Think again!" came a breathless voice from the archway. Hern stood panting, his run from the seagate, down the spiraling steps to the Grotto, having winded him. He held his right side with a tight hand; his face lined with a strong grimace of pain. "Your father called the Tribunal together a little while ago. He asked for an abrogation of your inheritance and is conferring the title of Prince Regent on your treacherous twin!"

"Galen?" Liza whispered. "How could he?" Conar merely looked at his old mentor. He neither registered the hurt he felt, the betrayal, nor the deep, abiding anger building in his calm face. He put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath. "It should have been Coron, even Dyllon, but if Galen's who he wants—" "It was who the Tribunal demanded!" Hern snapped. Conar shrugged. "Let them do whatever they want." "You don't mean that! You have to stop this, brat!" "I can't stop it." "You can fight," Liza parried. "I already fought." Conar snorted with fatalistic acceptance. "And lost." "Damn you, Conar!" Hern shouted. "Fight for your rights. Your daughter's rights. If the Tribunal accepts this abrogation, the babe will no longer be considered in line for the throne!" "It doesn't matter anyway," Conar told them. "We won't be here to worry about it." Hern took a few steps toward Conar. "I thought I taught you to stand your ground, boy!" Something stirred in Conar. Something dark and evil, lethal, but he kept a closed lid on the coiling serpent struggling to get free. He felt Liza staring at him and returned the glare. "What the hell are you looking at, woman? What is it you think I can do?" "I want you to stand up for yourself, Conar! Stand up for our daughter's birthright! Galen McGregor has no business sitting on the throne of this land and you know it. How can you allow that to happen after all he has done to you?" "Make your father see how wrong he is about you, Coni," Hern encouraged. "He is letting his pride cripple both you and him! Talk to him. You have to try!" "I can't make the man see what he refuses to see, Arbra! To him, I don't exist anymore." "I ought to beat some sense into the both of you!" Hern shouted. He jabbed a rigid finger toward Conar. "You, more so than your sire!" "Don't try it, Hern. I have nothing left to lose. This will be one time when you'll have to kill me before I buckle under!" Conar stood his ground, fury racing to his brain with the heady wine. Hern stared at the man he helped raise, the man he always thought of as his own son. He took in the set of Conar's shoulders and wondered when they had become so wide, so strong-looking. He flinched at the fierce gleam in those pale eyes. He knew it would take more of a beating than the stubborn brat deserved to make him back down this time. Exasperated, he threw his hands in the air. "Then take the cowardly way out, Conar! I won't try to stop you!" Hern stalked from the stone corridor, shouting over his shoulder: "The gods help you, lady. Your man has gone mad!"

Chapter 9 Conar turned a closed face to his wife. "If you're going to come with me into exile, Madame, the least you can do is stand behind my decisions!"

"Even though I know them to be wrong?" she asked. "Right or wrong, you will either abide by them, or you had better stay here!" His voice was brittle, curt, sharp. "Perhaps you would rather I stay!" she shouted. "There would be no one to tell you how stupid you are being!" "Is it stupid to know when you are beaten?" "It is stupid not to fight for what is by rights yours! Only a coward slinks off into the night!" She turned her back on him, starting away, but he laid his hand on her arm. Spinning her around to face him, he didn't realize what a strong, punishing grip he had on her until he was staggered by the slap she sent to his left cheek. "Stop manhandling me, Conar McGregor!" Conar winced at the stinging fire pulsing though his cheek. He was amazed that such a small woman could have such force behind her hit. "Never do that again!" His nostrils quivered with rage. She had managed to unleash the coiled serpent within him and the reptile was ready to strike. Liza watched the fury spreading across her husband's face. She'd seen that look once before. She tried to snatch her arm free of his grip, but he viciously jerked her. "Did you hear me?" he snarled. Liza struggled, but he only tightened his grip, her whimper seeming to excite him. His free hand plastered her body tightly to his. Her struggles only made him hold her closer; she could barely breath. A thin, malicious grin stretched his full lips. "That was surely a mistake. You're well and truly caught, woman." "Let go," she groaned, kicking, trying to connect her slippered foot with his shin. "Never," he vowed, backing her toward the cave wall. She twisted in his arms, but he slammed her against the wall and held her there with his body. "Let go, Conar! I mean it!" "Never, lady," he whispered, his breath hot and tingling in her ear. "Never in this lifetime." So closely pressed together were they, she could feel the sudden straining of his manhood against her lower belly, the pulsating movement of his shaft sending quick jabs of intense desire through her. "Conar, don't." Her voice wasn't as strong. Her protest minimal. "Not now." His lips went to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, seeking the tender, sensitive flesh along her collarbone. Her head fell to the side as his teeth nipped at the soft flesh. He smiled. She was his for the taking and he knew it. "Do I let you go now, Milady?" his soft, quiet voice asked against the column of her neck. Ripples of goose bumps spread along her arms and thighs. She licked her suddenly dry lips. His hips ground into her lower body with an incessant display as to the extent of his arousal. She sucked in her breath as he lifted his right knee and wedged his thigh between her legs, pressing firmly. Roughly he rubbed the hard-muscled flesh of his thigh between the V of hers, igniting, feeding, fanning the flames already growing within her lower body. "What about now, Milady? Do I let you go now?" His hands slid from her shoulders to the crook of her arms, pulling her away from the wall, straining her upper body backward as he braced his foot on a stalagmite, her body still straddling his hard thigh. He nipped at her chin and then trailed his lips down her throat and chest to press hotly against the fabric of her gown over one taut breast. Beneath the silk of her bodice, through the cotton of her chemise, Liza could feel the heat of his tongue swirling the

peak of one coral tip. It suckled, drawing a nipple almost through the material. His teeth grazed over the fabric, biting gently into it, pulling it away from her flesh, sucking on the wet material. She felt as though she was on fire, every nerve-ending singed with the white-hot heat of his desire. "What about now, Liza?" he cooed, his teeth still tangled in the fabric as he glanced up at her. "Are you still so intent on me letting you go, now?" She looked down at him, searching the glow in his eyes. There was no anger lurking there, only a desire so rampant and so unwilling to be denied that she knew he would take her whether she protested or not. Not as he once had—with pain and humiliation—but with insistent, undeniable intensity. "Damn you, Coni," she whispered. "You don't play fair." "Answer me," he demanded, turning his head to one side. "Shall I take my hands from you,? Shall I deny us both what we want?" When she didn't answer, he shifted her on his thigh and smiled as her eyes flared wide. "No!" she whimpered, unwilling to have him leave her. His hand came away from her right arm; he wedged it between his thigh and hers. He cupped her center and heard her draw a breath. "Do you yield, then?" Liza moaned, nodding, and he raised his head to look at her. His eyes darkened to the color of rich sapphires. They bore into hers as though he could penetrate to the very core of her being, could plunder her soul, taking it as he was about to take her body. "Never, ever deny me, lady. Never try, for I shall never let you go as long as there is strength in my hands and breath in this body." She felt him drawing her down to the cavern floor. Her knees gave way as his thigh pressed even more insistently between her legs. She lay flat upon the sparkling sand, his body sliding over hers, imprisoning her with the hard, muscled length of his tall frame. He covered her mouth with his own. Conquering it with his tongue as he meant to conquer, to bring her body into submission with his manhood. Liza could feel herself being drawn into the web of his lust, tangled there, hopelessly lost to him. She ran a nervous tongue over her lips. His eyes dropped to the movement her tongue made before he returned his hot gaze to hers. She watched as the blue pools narrowed in intense desire and swallowed hard against the agony building in her throat to scream at him to take her. She longed for the release only Conar McGregor would ever be able to give her. Conar wanted her and would not be denied. In the back of his mind a voice warned that this might well be the final time he would have her, but he firmly pushed aside the threatening voice, ignored Tohre's words that this woman would one day betray him. "You belong to me." He brought up his other leg, pressing her legs far apart so his bulging shaft could be felt between her open thighs. He pulled up her skirt, fumbled with the opening of his breeches, and flipped the buttons from their holes until he was exposed to her naked flesh. A whimper came from her, her chest heaving with every breath. She felt his manhood, hot and dripping with his arousal, slide across her bare thigh, and his hardness took her breath away. It was like steel stabbing into her sensitive flesh and her womb quickened with a surge of welcome. His lips came once more to the pulse at the base of her throat and she heaved her body upward in an unconscious pleading for his impalement. As his hand moved to the opening of her thighs, Liza twisted beneath him, seeking to mold her soft body to his hardness. She felt the rough calluses of his sword hand rubbing against her, tangling in the crisp curls that hid her womanhood. When his fingers found the moist heat of her passion, she closed her eyes and drew him closer. She pushed upward as his fingers slid into her, moving slowly, gently, insistently along the throbbing walls, going deeper and deeper as though he was striving to gain access to her very womb. "I am aching for you," he said so softly his voice was but a movement of air. "I could hurt you." Liza heard worry in his voice; she heard hesitation, and she knew a moment's sheer panic that he would withdraw and leave her to burst into the flames her body hinted were leaping within. "Don't worry," she whispered. "I can handle it."

He looked at her. An amused smile lined his mouth. Her eyes were tightly closed. Puckering his lips, he raised his head and blew his sweet breath across her face. "Elizabeth," he breathed her name softly, a lover's sigh, a heart-felt caress. Liza's eyes locked with his. She felt herself drawn into the glowing vortex of that blue sea, drowning in the love she saw reflected there, dying in his arms on the release of their combined passions. She stared at him until his gentle smile faded, his eyes turned hot and his lips came down to claim hers, his tongue penetrating her mouth. She felt the muscles of her vagina grab his questing fingers, heard the low growl of pleasure and need erupt from the back of his throat. Very gently, he eased his fingers from her. Liza protested the loss of such pleasure, but she felt the stabbing blade of his sword poised at the entrance to her passion and opened her eyes wide as he slid gently, unerringly, full length into her. She felt immense pleasure as he settled into her as he had done many, many times before. His cupped her face as he looked down at her. "Shall I stop, now, Milady?" he asked, his lips playing along hers. She shook her head, trying to move against him, to press her quaking, throbbing muscles further up along him so that she could feel the sharper pain his length always brought her. But with his hips he denied her movement. His mouth came away from hers so he could stare into her heat-flushed face. "Be still, lady." He felt her squirm and his voice went up a fraction in volume. "Be still, Elizabeth." A ragged breath escaped her throat. She whimpered, wanting him to begin the rhythm that would put out the burning flames building to a roaring inferno within her, but again his stern voice overshadowed her whimpering and her squirming. "Lie still, love," he commanded brokenly. "Wait." It took every ounce of what little control he still possessed to keep his body immobile over hers. Every muscle screamed to move. Every manly instinct told him to thrust wildly, deeply into her, branding her, conquering her, quelling her body into submission. But his heart knew the right pathway to take to her pleasure, so he lay perfectly still, sweat popping out on his forehead and upper lip, his manhood throbbing as though it were locked inside a vise. He could feel the blinding, searing agony in his loins as he denied himself. He ached to burst free inside her. He began to pant, his muscles quivered, a fine sheen of sweat soon covered his entire body. He heard his blood pounding in his ears, felt his knees trembling as he reclined atop her, keeping his full weight from crushing her. His elbows were bruising from the contact with the sand, the crystalline particles digging into his flesh. "Conar, please!" she begged against the lips that hovered over hers, barely touching. "Please, Beloved!" He merely shook his head, denying them both. He could feel his release building, striving to break free, and he clamped down hard on his wayward male instincts. Liza moaned in mounting frustration; she wanted him, needed him. All along the edges of her consciousness, she felt the beginning of the tingling, itching sensation that signaled the rush of her orgasm. She opened her eyes in wonder, looked into the fiery blue depths of Conar's eyes, saw the certain knowledge of his understanding building there. She felt his manhood leap within her in answer to the careening desire flooding through both their bodies. Her chest heaved against him and the small movement centered the fire in her loins. She felt herself quickening, building, lubricating around him. Conar watched her closely. He knew the exact moment her desire became full blown. Easing partially out of her, he waited until he felt the first faint throb, the first quiver, the first tiny grab of her muscles around him, the single grasping tremor deep within, and then pulled all the way out of her. "No!" she screamed, clutching at his shoulders, pulling him to her. "Don't stop!" Conar had no intention of denying her. Instead, he thrust as gently as he could deep within her, impaling her on the entire length. He felt the rapid succession of her climax moving around him, felt her nails digging furrows into his back through the fabric of his shirt. Just before he released his juices into her waiting body, he heard his name screamed in the abandonment of his wife's release. Their bodies thrashed against one another, straining, aching. They tumbled headlong into the maelstrom of their combined lust, blending together into one entity. They were complete unto themselves: two bodies, one soul. Inseparable, made whole by their great love for one another. His seed surged deep into her womb, claiming, branding, fulfilling.

It was the sound of his name being called that brought Conar back to total awareness. He listened as heavy running footsteps came crashing down the tunnel into the cavern. Instinctively trying to protect the woman he loved, he withdrew from her, hearing her gasp of slight pain, then, all in one motion sat up and shielded her body with his own. He withdrew the dagger strapped to his thigh. Sentian Heil came up short when he saw Liza. He turned away, but his flushed face and breathlessness caught Conar's immediate attention. "What's happened?" Conar asked, coming to his feet, adjusting his breeches. " 'Tis the babe, Milord! We can't find the babe!" *** All through the rest of that day and into the long night, every man, woman, and child old enough to do so, searched for Conar's daughter. A crescent moon rode high in the night sky while candles and torches lit the deep shadows in every nook and cranny within the keep, every hovel and inn in the village, every ship in the harbor. Bloodhounds brought in from the gamekeeper's cottage joined with those of Master Tucker's kennel of dogs, and the infant's blanket was given to the canines to sniff. The hounds were set loose on the vast grounds of the keep, its outbuildings, the wharves and the village, but their sensitive noses were unable to pick up a scent. No ransom note had been found; no demand had been made; no missive was sent claiming responsibility for the child's disappearance. Gezelle was questioned until, red-eyed and on the point of hysteria, Cayn, the court physician, ordered her to bed with a sedative. Sadie MacCorkingdale, the head cook of Boreas Keep and the last servant to see the babe before her disappearance, sat stony-faced and dry-eyed before her interrogators, her jaw clenched. "I know nothing of the little one's vanishing. I had no part in it!" she stated. Thom Loure, Captain of Conar's Elite Guard, brought his rubbery face close to the cook's. "No one says you did!" "Then get away from me, you big oaf! If there's one thing I surely wouldn't be a party to"—her gaze slid to where her nephew, Robbie, stood—"it would be the harming of an innocent babe!" Marsh Edan blanched as he stood listening, his face scrunched into a hard line of pain. "No harm's been done to the little one!" Each and every servant, guard, apprentice, village person who had had access to the keep was questioned at length until the Tribunal's Chief Interrogator was convinced he or she had no knowledge of the missing child's whereabouts. Sailors from the ships anchored in the harbor, including those of the Oceanian schooner, theSeachance , took small rowboats into the dark waters, praying fervently that no small body would be found floating. Pearl divers carried out their own grim search until the fading light made it impossible to see beneath the murky waters of Lake Myria and the North Boreal Sea. Legion, Teal, Wes, and Sentian each led a party of men in searching each quadrant of the surrounding countryside. Hern and his men confined their search to the keep's grounds, while King Gerren led his own personal guard, as well as the palace guard, through the village of Boreas. Storm Jale and Marsh Edan were assigned to watch and protect Liza, to keep her from going off on her own to search. Word was sent by carrier pigeon to the Oceanian capitol at Seadrift that the child was missing. Conar's Elite, led by Lin Dixon, combed the villages of Hul, Rhinea, Balt and Jost to the south and west of Boreas, going door to door, barn to barn, field to field, pond to pond. Liza stood on the battlements, kept there by Storm and Marsh on strict orders of her father-in-law and the pleas of her husband's brother, Legion. She paced the bridgework, watching the people scurrying about below. She waited, probing her own powers for the whereabouts of her daughter only to be stymied at every turn by a black, blank wall of fog. Her magic was of no use and she knew a terror so great, so impending, her nerves were worn thin wondering how that could be. She kept her silent vigil for hours, never opening her lips, heedless of the tears coursing down her cheeks. She kept her untiring watch, expecting the worst, hoping for the best. Eyes continually strayed to the lone figure who stood sentinel on the battlements. Her huddled form, wrapped in her great cape against the chill night air, gave more stamina to the already tired, more resolve to those just leaving to

search. Her despondent, vigilant stance tugged at the heartstrings of those who glanced at her, but added more strength, more conviction in the quest. In the quiet confines of the Wind Temple, the priests entreated every known god and goddess in the Serenian and Oceanian pantheons. Runes were cast, chants that had not been toned for many years, filled the high-vaulted ceilings. Candles and incense lay along massive altars, lending their sharp fragrances to the already overpowering smell of hot, perspiring male bodies as the robed priests knelt, their eyes closed, their lips moving silently in pleading to Alel. Only those magi amongst the Brotherhood of the Domination lay dormant. Their keen eyes, their listening ears, watched and heard the frenzied efforts of their brothers-in-arms but they did nothing to help. Neither did they try to hinder the progress of the searchers. "We are neutral in this, Highness," Tolkan Coure, the Arch-Prelate informed the King when he came in hopes of gaining help. "The child has not been taken by one of ours. I believe you will find another's hand behind this dastardly deed." "Whose?" Gerren bellowed. Tolkan shrugged his thin shoulders beneath the bulky black silk of his robe. "Your son, perhaps? What better way to gain sympathy for his plight than to have the people feel pity for him?" The man's thin lips moved in a travesty of a smile. "I am sure you will find the girl safe and well when Conar has been once more installed as heir to your throne. I must say he planned this well." Gerren stared at the man, his lip curling with distaste. "Conar would do no such thing!" Tolkan bowed his head. "You know him better than I, Highness." Until that time, Conar had been searching inside the keep. With Sentian close behind, he had gone room to room, finding no trace of his daughter. As his father—who heard long before Sentian that the babe was missing—spoke with Tolkan inside the Wind Temple, Conar came up against the might of the Temple Guards who refused to allow him entry into the Temple. His shouts and curses brought both his father and Tolkan outside. "You may not enter!" the Chief Guard shouted at the young Prince. It took five men to subdue Conar. The Temple Guards wrestled him to the ground, forcing him to his knees, bearing him to the temple steps in front of Tolkan as the old man walked onto the portico behind the King. "You have lost the privilege of entering these hallowed halls, young man!" Tolkan told him coldly. "You have been decreed anathema by your King. Even as I speak you are being excommunicated from the WindWarrior Society. The Elders will post the edict within the hour." "And will you excommunicate me from the Brotherhood, too, Tolkan?" Conar shouted at the man. Struggling against the hands forcing him to kneel, Conar found he couldn't raise even the smallest amount of power against the men keeping him down and wondered why. "You are being excommunicated because of the threats you made against your King," Tolkan replied, casting a sidelong glance at Gerren, whose face was hard and set as he stared at his son. "Your allegiance to the Domination is not part of this." "So help me, Tolkan, I will make you and that slime, Tohre, rue the day you ever took out your venom out on my child!" Conar spat at the feet of the Prelate. "I don't give a damn what you do to me, but my child is innocent!" Gerren watched his son being kept on his knees in the gravel. Conar's arms were behind his back; two men kept heavy hands on his shoulders. The boy's face was red with fury, feral in the glare of torchlight lining the Temple steps. There was about him a violence his father had never seen and it was easy to believe this young man quite capable of patricide. "Papa, can't you see what they are doing?" Tolkan smiled, and the evil of that smile filled Conar's heart with icy dread. "Why should we vent our anger on an innocent babe, Conar? Your father knows our business is with you alone!"

Conar flinched. He saw his father's lips twist with revulsion. The hard, chiseled face of the King was tight with disgust. "I swear to you, Coure," Conar whispered, "I will bring your black filth down around your ears!" Tolkan looked at King. "Do I have permission to deal with one of my brethren, Majesty?" A muscle jumped in the King's jaw; he ground his teeth together. He nodded stiffly and turned from Tolkan's horrible grin. "He is your responsibility, Coure. Not mine." "Papa!" Conar shouted, stung by his father's words. Tolkan smiled triumphantly and he strode down the marble steps, coming to stand directly in front of Conar. Sweeping back his robe, he knelt on the last step, reached out a hand gnarled with advanced age, and took Conar's chin in his fist. He forced up the young man's head, although Conar tried to jerk his chin free of the vile touch. "I would be careful of what you say and do, Conar." He anchored Conar's face in his grip. "There is more at stake than you realize. There are others who could suffer grievously from your stupidity." Conar stilled instantly. "Are you threatening my family? Here, in front of your King?" The old man lifted one bony shoulder in disdain. "I am merely suggesting that your wife could be turned out on the streets along with her husband if you do not behave." "Elizabeth is safe from such action," Gerren spat, his voice tight with warning. "She has done nothing wrong." Tolkan looked up at the King. "True, but will the Tribunal see it that way?" Gerren's face lost its color. His furious stare swept to Conar. "See what you have set into motion? You are a blight on this family!" "If any man, my father included, tries to deny my wife or daughter the rights that are theirs, I will kill him myself!" Conar spat. A gasp ran through those assembled. The Arch Prelate's face had taken on an unholy light and his thin lips had stretched wide with victory. "A serious offense, Conar. You have threatened your father's life in front of witnesses. The Tribunal will not take kindly to such blatant disregard of the laws." "I don't give a damn what you call it or who heard!" Conar said through clenched teeth. "You have set him against me. You are the cause of all of this." His jaw ached from the pressure of Tolkan's bony fingers. "Turn him over to the Tribunal," the King ordered. "He deserves what he will get!" He started to walk away, but Conar's angry voice made him stop. "How many lashes will you require they lay to my flesh, Majesty?" Conar sneered. "Twenty? Thirty? Will that appease your sense of betrayal? Will the sight of my blood give you back the self-esteem you think you have lost?" Gerren's lids flickered; his breath caught in his throat. He could only stare at the man he had called his son. He didn't know this being who knelt in the darkened courtyard glaring with hatred. His words fell like stones to the ground. "I have washed my hands of you," Gerren grated. "The Tribunal will see justice done." "The Tribunal can go to hell!" Conar shouted. One of the men holding him had heard enough. He shoved a hard fist into the soft part of Conar's side, doubling him over. "No, Hebra," Tolkan cautioned, standing "But Holiness—" "He will be made to atone for his sins. Make no mistake. But now is not the time. First, the little girl must be found.

Then we will deal with him." He turned to the King. "If I turn him in to the Tribunal, Majesty, they will jail him. Let him stay here in the courtyard; I will place guards to see he goes nowhere. The Princess is our main concern and the people will wonder greatly if he is not where they can see him." Conar stared at his father, unwilling to believe the man had disowned him. "Whatever you decide. It matters not at all to me." Tolkan bowed slightly as the King walked away. He smiled. "I think your troubles are coming to a head, don't you, Conar?" "Are we not to at least shackle him, Holiness?" Hebra asked, his gaze hateful as he glared at his prisoner. "No need. Make sure he does not enter the keep again. As soon as the babe is found, he will be made to do penance for his insolence." Tolkan's wintry smile slid slowly from his wrinkled face. "And when he does, I know he will regret ever having been born!" The old man laughed, his chuckle dry and shriveled like ancient parchment as he walked stiffly up the temple steps.

Chapter 10 It was now almost morning of the second day. To the east, a faint streak of light lit the black sky at the horizon. No word had reached the ears of those searching for the child. No cry of happiness or sadness had echoed across the silent courtyard where only a handful of men sat around a blazing campfire. On the battlements, torchlight still wavered in the breeze, lighting the Princess as she gazed toward the south. Her brothers had arrived at sunset the eve before, having ridden down from Virago where they were visiting the Hesar brothers. They now stood with her, waiting. Conar looked up from his place under one of the canopies and saw his father's horse, a bold roan stallion, prancing beside the lesser mounts of the King's Guard. He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and watched the guards speaking. He got to his feet, wondering what had happened. Walking heavily across the courtyard toward the stables, his heart thundered, for as he drew closer, several of the men looked toward him and began to dismount, their swords sliding effortlessly from their scabbards. He ground his teeth, but never broke his stride. Did they think he would really attack his own father? He saw the guard's second in command—a man he had known all his life—nod to one of the younger men, who stepped forward, blocking Conar's way. The Prince cursed beneath his breath at being denied entrance to the stables. He looked to the man in charge and asked if the King was inside. A haughty sneer lifted the guard's upper lip. "The King is questioning a stableboy who says he saw someone leaving the keep yestermorn with a wrapped bundle." Conar's heart lurched. He made to go around the man, but a sharp sword point brought him up short. He looked at the polished steel and then at the guard who held it. The young man was one of his own Elite. "Will you run me through, Matheny?" The man didn't answer, but instead put slight pressure on the blade as it rested on Conar's chest. His manner was uncompromising. Conar let out a wavering breath. "I guess you would." King Gerren came out of the stables, pulling on his brown leather gloves as he walked briskly toward his horse. He glanced briefly at his son, reached up for the pommel of his saddle, and put a foot in the stirrup. After swinging into the finely stitched saddle, he gathered the reins. "What did the boy say?" Conar asked.

The King's back stiffened. "I have a right to know!" Conar felt the tip of Matheny's sword twist on his ribcage. Totally beyond rational thought, the Prince thrust aside the blade, drawing in his breath as the edge slid across his palm, slicing, a long, thin opening along the flesh. He knew the boy did it purposely. As Matheny sent him a silent plea for instruction, Gerren held up his hand. "No, Roy." He watched as Conar drew near. Looking at the son, he felt only mild pity. Then his resolve strengthened and he willed himself to sit still, emotionless, as Conar laid a hesitant hand on his knee. "Please, Papa." A long moment passed as he continued to stare at his son. The moistness in Conar's eyes turned to silent tears. Conar's chin faintly trembled, as he obviously tried to keep his face from crumbling. The boy's tears enraged the King, while the ravaged face set his teeth on edge. "Lloyd," the King said to the guard in charge. "Tell this man he has no rights here. Tell him he is dead to me and the dead have no need to know what the living do." It took Conar a second to digest what his father had said. His mouth opened, but the hurt and shame only allowed a whisper to come through. "You don't mean that, Papa." Conar put his other hand on his father's leg, heedless of his torn flesh or the blood dripping onto the King's trousers. "Tell him, Lloyd, that he is filth beneath my feet!" Kicking out one booted foot, he caught his son fully in the chest, sending Conar crashing to the ground. The King stared at the bloody handprint on his knee and a look of repugnance passed over his face. "And tell him, Lloyd, that I shall require forty lashes on his bared back!" "I am your son!" Conar screamed as the King and his guard cantered over the drawbridge. Tears coursed down his cheeks and he unthinkingly brushed them away, leaving bloody streaks across his face. "I am your son," he whispered. He looked at the stables where a guard stood, barring his way, and he let his head sag. Whatever the stableboy had to say would not be said to him. *** Liza had witnessed the entire scene. Her heart nearly broke as she watched her husband pleading for knowledge of their child's whereabouts. She knew how much it must have cost him to humble himself to the man who had disowned him. A sob caught in her throat as Conar wearily dragged himself from the ground. She saw him look up at her, his face a twisted mask of shame. He slowly shook his head and turned to walk away. She wanted to call out to him, to dry the tears and smooth the worried lines on his brow, but she could do neither. Guards were posted at the doors of the keep to deny him entrance,and to keep them from each other. She watched him trudge to the guardhouse where he sat on the steps leading into the left turret. His shoulders drooped with fatigue and he hunched forward over his knees and buried his face in his hands. Liza braced her hands on the battlement's crenellation and tried to keep the quiver out of her voice as she spoke to Storm, standing a few feet away with Marsh Edan. "Will you see that my husband has food and drink? I know he's had nothing all day. It will be dawn soon. He has to be hungry and no one dares offer him anything." Storm and Marsh looked at one another. They had been ordered to stay with the Princess. Not only for her safety, but to keep Conar McGregor from reaching her. When the Elite did not answer her, Liza turned and fixed the two men with a look of pleading. Her tear-stained face and ashen cheeks said more than words. "I'll see to it, Your Grace," Storm told her, ducking his head in respect. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she slowly let it out. Her lips formed a tiny smile. "Thank you, my friend. I am most

grateful." *** The kitchens were dark, still smoke-filled. Storm filled a platter with cold roast beef, cheese, and apples and poured a large tankard of buttermilk. He took a ragged chunk of sourdough bread from the bowl beside the ovens where it had been left to dry out for that day's stuffing. The crust was hard, crackly, but a quick poke with his finger assured the Elite the inside was soft enough to eat. "That for him?" Sadie MacCorkingdale asked as she sidled into the kitchen. The sun was just beginning to pink the horizon and the old woman was up to start the day's cooking. She thrust her chin toward the buttermilk. "Maybe he'd like ale instead." "I think not," Storm answered. "He's hadtoo much ale lately." "Might be the last he'll get for a long, long time." Storm glanced at her as he placed the meal on a brass tray. "He doesn't need it, old woman." Sadie's face glowed in the shadows. "I know what he needs, Jale," she said as he started to leave. "He needs to be whipped like a dog!" Storm turned, began to say something, but instead shook his head. His footsteps were heavy as he walked into the courtyard. *** Conar had long since lost his curiosity about the comings and goings within the courtyard. His morose thoughts were filled with despair, shame and hopelessness. It wasn't that he feared the lash; it wasn't that he really thought his father would require so many of those lashes to satisfy his bloodlust. It wasn't even the fear of being shamed before his people, of being exiled, that had him worried. It was Liza's uncertain future that filled him with such overwhelming dejection. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gleam of metal in the flare of a torch and turned his head. Making out the tray of food, he was thankful to whoever was listening to his silent prayers that it had not been a sword or dagger coming his way. Not that it really mattered to him at that moment. He saw Storm's rigid face, his set mouth, and sighed. Your friends will turn their back on you!Tohre's words echoed through his numb mind. He looked from Storm to the silent form of his wife. He tried to smile at her, but his lips would not obey. He looked back at the tray of food before studying Storm's expressionless face. Storm saw the dejected slant of Conar's powerful shoulders, the pain-filled face. He stooped and placed the tray beside his Overlord, then turned to go. Conar's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Thank you, Storm." Storm didn't turn, but could feel the Prince's hurt gaze on his back. "Your lady-wife sent the food," he said woodenly, then started to walk away, but as an afterthought, out of respect for what the man had once been, he added, "Sire." Conar jerked his head away from the man who had once been his friend. Not looking at the retreating figure, he called pleadingly, "They may send me far from here or imprison me, Storm. If they do either, I doubt they will let my wife stay with me." His voice broke. "Please take care of her as you once did me." Snapping his head around to look at Storm's stiff back, he begged, "Please?" Hearing the anguish in the Prince's words, Storm Jale could only manage to nod in pledge. Not for the man, but for the lady who deserved it. ***

Five more days passed and still no word. Legion, Teal and Sentian had returned on the morning of the fourth day. Thom had come in an hour earlier. None of them had any news of the babe. No one but Sentian paid any attention to the red-eyed, weary man who pressed into the shadows of the guard tower where he spent his days and nights, hoping, watching for any sign that news had arrived. Grice Wynth came in that morning. Hern rode in at sunset and started walking toward Conar, only to be called back by the King. "Leave him alone, Arbra! That's an order!" Conar looked up at Hern. A fleeting smile touched his quivering lips. Hern shook his head, letting the young man know he had no news. Conar nodded and looked at the ground. As the others arrived, he looked up with expectation each time. The next morning found him sitting with his head against the stone wall, fitfully dozing. "Lord Legion, please!" Sentian Heil pleaded with the newest Commander of the Serenian Forces. "He can't go on like this!" Legion looked across the courtyard and saw flies buzzing about the tray of food someone had thoughtfully provided for his brother's breakfast. "Look at him!" Sentian demanded. "Do you really think he deserves this?" Legion hadn't spoken to Conar in more than five days. He scanned the figure sitting beside the turret wall and flinched. Conar looked terrible. His clothes were filthy, his face was unshaven and smeared with dried blood and flecks of dirt. He sat with his shoulders slumped, his hands lying palm up in his lap. He looked so helpless and lost. "If Papa catches us…" Legion began only to have Sentian's snort of derision stop him. "They can take an inch or two of hide off my back and it wouldn't matter to me! He is suffering. I can't stand it anymore!" He began to walk toward Conar. He wasn't surprised when Legion fell into stride beside him. They crossed the courtyard, observing the shunning of Conar by those milling about: the searchers coming in for a brief rest, servants hovering about with food and drink for guards and searchers without thought to the hungry prince, guards who kept a close silent watch over Conar. "You better leave him alone, Heil!" a guard warned Sentian. "The King's made a decree about talking to him." "That man is your Prince!" Sentian shot back and took a step toward the guard only to have Legion put a restraining hand on his arm. "For the love of Alel!" Legion hissed. "Don't call attention to the fact that we're breaking Papa's order!" Sentian turned, furious, consigning the guard to the pit and beyond for his condemnation of Conar. "I'll get you, Lambert!" Conar was dozing off, his tired and worried mind having temporarily shut down so his body could rest. He didn't hear his brother approaching until Legion's words brought him awake. "You should eat," Legion said hoarsely, eyeing the insect-infested tray of food. Conar looked up at his brother. "What?" "I said you should eat." Legion nudged the tray with his boot. The blank look on Legion's face hurt him. "I wasn't hungry," Conar answered and let his gaze slide away. "We will find her," Sentian told him, his heart aching for the man. "I know," Conar whispered, savoring the only words of warmth he had heard in nearly a week. "The Tribunal is meeting this morning to deal with you, Conar," Legion warned. "They have refused to put off making

a decision any longer. You had better prepare yourself—" Legion stopped speaking as Conar raised his eyes. For a moment, A'Lex couldn't finish. Even to his own ears, his voice had been hateful, waspish, and smug—condemning. He tore his gaze from Conar. "Just be prepared for the worst, that's all." "Conar!" Liza's scream from the battlements stilled all activity in the bailey. Everyone looked up at her. She stood rigid, her trembling finger pointing to the south. Standing, Conar looked out the opening of the drawbridge. A dust cloud swirled behind a lone horseman astride a white steed. The man seemed to be in no hurry as he wound his way up the curving road, although the strong sea breeze buffeted him and his horse as he walked the beast over the natural stone arch leading to the keep's lower redoubt. Something in the way the rider sat his horse told those who watched that he would like to prolong his journey for as long as he could. "Conar!He has our daughter !" Liza screamed. Conar saw Liza struggling with her brother Grice, trying to free herself from his grasp. He felt his chest twisting, felt her pain, her agony. She knew something, something he was just then beginning to sense as well. His gaze returned to the lone rider. Sweat broke out on his forehead, under his arms, in his palms. He heard the hard tattoo of his heart inside his ribcage. Every nerve ending came alive with sharp agony and he strained to make out the rider's identity. "Heis carrying something in his arms," Sentian said as he looked at Legion. "It's Lord Saur, Commander," one of the tower guards called down to A'Lex. "Aye," Legion answered, for he had recognized his brother Brelan Saur, too. His mind was on the rider, but his ears were all too aware of Liza's cries as she strove to break free of Grice's hold. No one even thought to stop Conar as he crossed the inner drawbridge of the bailey and headed for the larger drawbridge that lay across a sea channel of the North Boreal. No one dared to speak to him as he left the drawbridge, crossed the moat, and stood at the foot of the earthworks, even though a dozen men followed. Conar's entire body trembled as he stared up at Brelan's closed face. He couldn't bring himself to lower his gaze to the white bundle in his brother's arm. He knew what it was. Brelan glanced up at the far battlements, and even though he couldn't see Liza from his place on the roadway, he could hear her shouts. Her cries, unintelligible from this distance, rent his already aching heart. He let his gaze slowly lower to his brother. "Brelan?" Conar's voice broke. Saur's hard stare made Conar flinch. "Is it Nadia?" Legion asked. Brelan shifted in the saddle, ignored Legion's question, and bent over, extended the bundle toward Conar. When Conar reached out his trembling arms, the amount of hatred he saw in Saur's dark eyes stunned him. Never taking his glare from Conar, Brelan spoke. "If I thought I hated you before, I hate you even more now." He kicked his horse. The steed bolted forward, digging its massive hind legs into the oyster-shell pathway, and left the men standing in a haze of dust. Conar cradled the bundle to his chest and looked at Legion. Legion would have taken the babe out of Conar's arms, but Conar clutched the white bunting tighter to him. Taking a deep breath, Legion made to lift away the material, but Conar pulled the babe out of his reach. "She's sleeping. You'll wake her, Legion." Legion glanced at Sentian, whose eyes were moist. Both men were aware of the stillness of the object in Conar's arms.

Legion held out his hands. "Let me have her, now." "No." Conar planted a tender kiss on the bunting. "We need to take her to her mama. Let me take her to Liza." Conar shifted the bundle to his shoulder, and patted it as though he were soothing the babe. His hand slid up and down the material. "I'll take her to her mama." Legion had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Papa's guards won't let you inside the keep. You know that. Let me have her, Conar. She probably needs feeding." Conar shook his head. "It's cold out here, Milord," Sentian said, tears falling down his cheeks. "Let your brother take the babe inside." Conar shifted his gaze to Sentian's. "She probably needs her diaper changed, too, and you know how you don't like doing that." Sentian tried to smile. Conar's voice was soft. "I don't mind so much." Legion could see the tremor in Conar's hands. The man was about to shatter. He put his hand on Conar's rigid arm and tugged. "Give her to me, little brother." Conar brought the bundle higher, nuzzled it against his cheek, then lowered it toward Legion. "Be careful of her." Legion could only nod as he took the wrapped bundle. As Conar handed his burden to his brother, the corner of the fabric covering the babe's face fell away. Legion stared at the small form of his niece. A silentno formed on his trembling lips; his gaze snapped up to Conar's. The young Prince had kept close watch on Legion's face all the while, taking in every facial expression, every breath. Seeing the horror now stamped on Legion's face, Conar's brows drew together in confusion, he tightened his hold on the bundle, and he began to lower his gaze. A keening whimper dredged up from the depths of his soul. His face began to crumble; his body shook uncontrollably; he thought his knees were going to buckle. Apparently Sentian did, too, for the man grabbed him under his arms. "Take it away!" Sentian shouted, grunting as Conar's limp weight hung in his hands. With his chin quivering, Conar felt a scream rising up within him. All sound was blocked out of his hearing; all sight, save for the grisly one that stared back at him, left his line of vision. The sky around him grew red, then dark, then a brilliant white glare, and he threw back his head and howled his anguish to the heavens and the merciless gods who dwelt there. High on the crenellations, Liza lay unconscious in her brother's arms. At the exact moment Conar had beheld the sight of their dead child, she had slumped in Grice's arms. Thom and Teal came running from the courtyard, closely followed by Hern Arbra and Chand Wynth. The men could see the struggle taking place in the dust of the roadway. Legion was trying desperately to take the babe from Conar, for the Prince's fingers were tangled in the fabric. Teal was the first to reach them. "What's happened?" There was a catch in his voice. He knew already from the looks on their faces that the babe was dead. "Help me take the child away, Teal!" Legion ground out. "He shouldn't be seeing this!" Teal stepped forward, wresting the bundle from Conar's fierce grip as Hern and Sentian pulled away the Prince's hands, restrained his arms, kept him from coming at du Mer. "Let go of me!" he shouted. "Let me have my daughter!" Teal glanced at the bundle now resting in his own arms. He felt bile rising in his chest. "Oh, god!" he breathed, speaking without thinking. "Her throat's been cut!"

Hern jerked violently. He took Conar into his arms. The young man tried to pull free, but Hern gathered Conar to him and forced the head into the crook of his shoulder to blot out the sight. "Take the babe inside, du Mer!" Hern shouted. Teal started to back away, the tiny bundle held as far away from his body as he could get it. His face was filled with revulsion and he could feel hot, bitter fluid flooding his mouth. Conar jerked his head from Hern's shoulders, took one look at Teal's face, at the way the man was holding his child, and his heart shattered into a million pieces. "For the love of Alel, du Mer! Don't take your hate for me out on my child!" Hard, wracking sobs shook his body and he slumped in Hern's grip. "Don't take it out on my baby!" Hern looked at Sentian and nodded. They released Conar, who went to his knees in the dirt. He doubled over, his arms clutched around his middle. He sobbed, whimpering so heartbrokenly the others could only stand with bent heads and listen. A cry went out from the guard tower. "The King has been attacked! He is sorely wounded!" Pointing a finger at Conar, the speaker shouted. " 'Twas his Elite that done it! Arrest him! He has bargained for the King's death!"

Chapter 11 All around them, voices lifted in anger, in confusion. A cacophony of sound spun throughout the courtyard, over the drawbridge, drowning out Legion's call for quiet. A group of men, swords drawn, their faces filled with murderous intent, headed for Conar. Conar pleaded with Legion. "I had no part in it," he sobbed. "I give you my word. I haven't…" His voice broke as he lifted his hands in supplication. "I haven't done anything." The sight of the powerful warrior fallen to his knees, his face a mask of agony, his hands up in pleading, made some in the bailey question his guilt. "Look at him, now! Does he look like he had a hand in this?" they cried, but the opposition voices were louder. "Arrest him!" those loyal to the Tribunal shouted as they rushed headlong toward the Conar. "Don't let him get away!" "Get up, Your Grace!" Thom warned, drawing his sword. "Get up, now!" Conar came unsteadily to his feet, helped by Sentian's hands. He stood still, the news of his father's attack still ringing in his ears. The sight of his daughter lying in death clouded his vision of the men running toward him from the keep's outer bailey. "Run, boy!" Hern whispered, his hand going to the dagger at his thigh. "Get away while you can!" "No!" Legion shouted, fixing Hern with a fierce scowl. "If he does that…" When the hard rumble of hoof beats echoed over the courtyard, Conar looked up, his face crinkled with confusion. He sucked in his breath, for a black streak of thundering horseflesh bolted toward him, careening past the running men, knocking some down, scattering the others. His warhorse, Seayearner, was racing toward him, riderless, without saddle or bridle. The massive forelegs dug deep into the planking of the drawbridge, the wood booming, silver sparks flying from 'Yearner's hooves as the steed flew at breakneck speed toward its master. "Go!" Hern bellowed, pushing aside Legion. Looking toward the men drawing near, Conar saw only one way out of his predicament. He cast one quick look at

Sentian, who nodded, and then he sprinted away. "Conar,no !" Legion yelled, trying to get past Hern and Sentian to stop his brother. "Don't do this!" Seayearner's hind legs locked. The beast skidded almost to a stop as it reached Conar. The horse's sides quivered, his black tail swished wildly in the breeze as it slowed. Conar grabbed a handful of its mane and swing himself on the steed's back. The horse reared high as Conar settled, then bolted forward, its hooves crashing on the ground with a mighty thud. Conar heard the whistle of an arrow as it hit the ground behind him, felt another graze his left wrist. He kicked Seayearner into a faster gallop, and horse flew down the switchback road, leapt the auxiliary moat and disappeared around the bend leading into the high Serenian Mountains. "Damn it," Legion hollered. "Come back!" "Do we follow him?" Thom asked, looking at Hern's smug face, not at all sure the Master-at-Arms had been right in sending the Prince fleeing. The Commander's next words echoed Thom's feelings exactly. "Aye, we follow him, Loure!" Legion snarled. "And we find his ass before that angry mob does!" He turned his furious face to Hern Arbra. "What the hell were you thinking, man?" "He isn't guilty of anything but a bad temper and a loud mouth!" Hern said, his thick chin raised. "If someone has attacked the King, it sure as hell wasn't done on the boy's orders and you damned well know it!" "That's beside the point, Arbra!" Legion snapped. "His running away makes him look as guilty as sin!" "Not to my way of thinking. Had he stayed, these bastards might well have skewered him!" Hern shot back as the men began arriving who had been running after Conar. Legion threw up his hands. "You're a pigheaded fool, Arbra. I could have protected him." "He'll hang," one of the new arrivals told Legion. "If the King dies, your brother will hang." When Legion shot forward, taking exception to the man's words, Hern stepped between them. "Do you still think you could have protected him?" Hern quipped. Storm Jale shouted from the barbican, his mouth cupped with his hands. "Legion!" A'Lex looked up to Jale's strained face. "Aye?" "He's alive, but unconscious. Lord Saur sent me to get you." "Is he in with Papa?" "Aye, along with a roomful of guards! The Healer is with him, too." "I'll be right there." Legion gazed at Hern. "Find my brother, Arbra. Fetch him back before some fool puts an arrow in his back." Not giving the Master-at-Arms a chance to reply, he spun on his heels and hastened away, motioning for Sentian to follow. Brelan was waiting at the stairs leading to the King's chambers. His worried face was tight with concern. "How is he?" Legion asked. "He's awake. He asked me to find Conar." Legion glanced sideways at Brelan. "Do you think Papa believes Conar was responsible?" Saur shrugged. "The men who attacked Papa wore black hoods over their faces, but they were wearing the tunics of Conar's Elite. There were six of them. Two stabbed him while the others stood watch. They left their ceremonial daggers behind. The daggers Conar gives his men on being accepted into the Elite." "How seriously is he hurt?" Legion asked as he drew away from Brelan.

Annoyed that he could barely keep up with Legion's long stride down the corridor, Brelan hurried forward. He stepped in front of his brother, halting Legion's entry into their father's room. "Nothing vital was hit. Those bastards knew exactly where to stab. Don't you find that odd?" "Tunics and daggers can be stolen, Saur," Legion growled. "Leaving behind the daggers, daggers such as those carried by an Elite, seems like planting evidence, don't you think?" Brelan shook his head, his mind not on Legion's question, but on questions of his own. "When Papa awoke he looked for Conar. Called his name. Cayn told him to lie quietly, not to move. He tried to get up. He said he wanted Conar before it was too late. He was worried someone would put steel through Conar's gut before he had a chance to speak to him." Brelan looked hard at Legion. "His exact words were…find your brother, Brelan; find him before they make him pay for what I've done." "So what does that tell you?" Legion snapped. "If Papa truly thought Conar was behind this, why did he send you to keep him safe?" Brelan couldn't answer that. He watched in confused silence as Legion went in to their father. He leaned against the wall and asked himself the same question. *** Hern swung into his saddle, his crossbow and quarrels in hand. He eyed the Tribunal Guards who were already streaking across the drawbridge. He looked to Ward Summerall and Lin Dixon, two of Conar's best Elite warriors. "Get your asses in those saddles!" Lin glanced at the set, craggy face of the Master-at-Arms. "Do you think him guilty?" "I do not! This is not the brat's way. If he had wanted his father dead, he would've done it himself. A man says a lot of things when he's hurt, and the brat was only lashing out at what had hurt him. He would never do such a thing as this." He turned his fierce glare to Lin. "Doyou think he's guilty?" Lin Dixon shook his head. "He wouldn't do this." "You sure?" Lin met the older man's gaze. "Aye, Sir Hern. I am sure." "I turned my back on him, too," Roy Matheny said miserably. "He'll understand and forgive you," Wesley Patrick said as he swung into his saddle. Hern jerked on his horses reins. "No matter how many times the boy is hurt, he always forgives. That is his way. Conar, above any other man I know, understands hurt." He kicked his gelding hard in the ribs and the big black horse shot forward with a whinny of protest. *** By the same time the next day, no one had been able to find Conar McGregor. The trail he had made up into the mountains had been lost by a streambed. There were hoof prints down one shallow bank and heavy indentations in the rock bed, but though they searched every inch of the stream's banks, no sign of where Conar exited could be found. That evening, the King, once more unconscious and pale, lay in his bed with Legion and Brelan at his side. Brelan had not gone looking for Conar as his father requested. Instead, he had kept vigil along with Legion and both were tired and ill at ease with one another. Legion frowned. Brelan was sitting with his hands tightly clasped between his knees, staring intently at their father's still face. His shirt was crusted with his niece's dried blood and his unshaven cheeks were dust-covered from his ride to Boreas. "At least take a bath." Legion's nose quivered with Brelan's smell. "You need sleep, too." "I'll sleep when Papa wakes up. If you don't like the way I smell, get the hell out of here!"

Legion met Brelan's hard stare. "What are you waiting for?" "Nothing of any import!" Brelan practically shouted. "I have to know if he thinks Conar might have been responsible for this attack." "And if he does?" "I'll go after the bastard. There'll be no need to arrest him. I'll bring back his bloody corpse!" Legion shook his head at his brother's stubbornness. "Even though you know damned well that isn't what Papa would want." He got up from his chair and stretched, then walked to the window and pushed aside the drapes. He caught sight of a milling throng of Temple Guards who had just ridden into the inner bailey. He looked over his shoulder. "Do you really think Conar is such a coward that he would have other men do his dirty work?" "He's capable of anything." "Is that your jealousy speaking?" Brelan impaled Legion with a hot, angry look. "I'm not jealous of him!" "We all are. Who do you think you're fooling?" "I'm not jealous of him," Brelan mumbled. Legion snorted and turned his attention back to the riders. "Why didn't you go after him?" "I told you, I wanted to be near Papa—" "Is that the only reason?" "What other reason would I have had?" Legion didn't need to turn around to know Brelan was glowering at him. He could feel the intent stare. "My guess is you don't want him found." "I'm just giving the bastard the benefit of the doubt, else I'd be on his trail right now!" "What I'm hearing from you is that you think Conar could very well be innocent." "Those are your words," Brelan snapped. "Aye, but they're your thoughts." Brelan stood and hunched his shoulders as he dug his hands into the pockets of his breeches. "It must be nice to be so damned sure of what other people feel, A'Lex!" Legion turned and smiled. "It's easy when the knowledge is blazing in their faces, Saur." "One of us should check on Elizabeth." Brelan headed for the door. "Be careful what you say to her." Saur closed his father's door with more force than he had intended. He skipped down the short flight of stairs from the royal chambers to the second floor where Conar's room was located. He barely glanced at the guards flanking Liza's door, jumping as one of the men reached out a hand to stop him. He turned hostile eyes to the Elite who he thought was trying to bar his way. "I am Ward Summerall, Lord Saur," the young man said. "I just wanted you to know that none of us has done this thing." He looked at the man standing guard beside him, who nodded. "Prince Conar would have never asked it of us nor would he have done it himself. There is not a man in this unit, including those arrested yesterday, who carries the burden of guilt." Six men, all high-ranking members of Conar's guard, men whose daggers with their initials had been found in the King's chambers, had been dragged from their homes and questioned by the Tribunal's interrogators.

Screams of pain could be heard filtering up from the inquisition room that had not been used for nearly fifty years. Throughout the long night and into the next, the men had denied any part in the attack. When shown their daggers, each man had sworn on the lives of their families that he had never before used the ceremonial dagger. The black, rune-carved blades were not weapons of defense, but special insignias of honor, given to them on the day they were initiated into the Elite. Brelan stared hard, his eyes boring into the young man's soul. "Then who's responsible?" "Those who wish the Prince harm. He has many enemies, Lord Saur. I am told even you are numbered among them." His gaze didn't waver as Brelan sucked in a shocked breath. "You think I had a hand in this?" "No more so than the Prince." Brelan shrugged. "You may be right." "Iknow I am." "I hope for Conar's sake you are." "One other thing I know, Lord Saur. Whoever is responsible will pay dearly for having caused His Grace such pain." Brelan inclined his head. Conar's men had always been loyal despite his moments of stupidity. Grice glanced up as Brelan was admitted into the room. He nodded to his friend. Chand Wynth sat beside the fireplace, his ears intent on a scratching sound coming from the armoire. Getting up, he opened the door and poked among the dresses and shoes, a look of relief on his face when he found nothing inside the cabinet. "What ails you, Chandling?" Brelan called. "Sound like rats," he said, closing the door with a snap. "Better have someone check it out." He returned to his chair and his head jerked toward the armoire as the scratching sound came again. Grice frowned. He'd never cared for rodents. His gaze swept the floor around the armoire, hoping against hope that nothing gray and bewhiskered came scuttling across the carpet. His arms tightened around his sister as Liza sat with her head on his shoulder, her hand clasped tightly in his. She looked up as Brelan sat on the bed at her feet. "They won't let me see my baby, Bre," she protested in a flat, thin voice. Brelan glanced at Grice. "You shouldn't just yet, Elizabeth." "I want my baby," she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. "I want my husband." Flinching, Brelan looked away from her tearful face and his gaze settled on Chand. "How about taking your brother out of here, Chandling, before something jumps out at him. I'll stay with your sister." Easing Liza out of his arms, knowing Brelan wanted to be alone with Liza and wanting that also, Grice stood. He jerked his head toward the door and was relieved when Chand nodded. When the door closed behind the Wynth brothers, Brelan moved sat at the head of the bed, taking Liza in his arms and cradling her against his chest. One slim hand entwined its fingers with his and he rested his chin on her head. "Thank you for finding her for me, Bre." "I wish to the gods it had not been me," he said honestly. "Where?" She had to know. He saw no reason not to tell her. "At a place called the Hound and Stag Inn near Iomal. The innkeeper found her in the loft there."

Brelan could not have known how bitterly that knowledge hurt the woman he held, could not have known the significance of the babe being found where her parents had first met. He was stunned when Liza turned her head into his chest and wailed, sounding as if her heart shattered. Her body trembled with such violence Brelan became alarmed. Unable to quiet her uncontrollable sobbing, her shudders of agony, afraid for her state of mind, he called for one of the guards to find Cayn. When no answer came after the second and third calls, he cursed softly, easing her down to lie on the bed in a ball of grief, and stalked rapidly to the door, throwing open the portal with an angry snap. Just as he opened his mouth to chastise the men for not paying better attention, all light suddenly disappeared from his world and he sank slowly to the floor in a heap.

Chapter 12 Liza felt strong arms around her, closing her in, protecting her, and she pressed her body into their warmth. She heard the solid beat of his heart, smelled the sweet cinnamon odor of his body and her head came up, her tears ceasing on a hitch of breath. Her eyes widened as she looked into the troubled blue gaze of her husband. Her world tilted back into prospective. She clutched him to her in a frenzy of need, burying her face against his shirt. Conar knew it would be only a matter of minutes before Brelan's body would be found outside the door. It might take a little longer until Ward's and Drummond's unconscious bodies were found in the linen closet down the hall. He had locked his bedroom door behind him, but he knew the lock wouldn't keep anyone truly intent on gaining entrance out for long. "Listen to me, love," Conar said urgently, raising her tear-stained face to meet his. "Will you leave with me?" "Of course," she answered, her voice tiny and lost. "We shall have to leave her behind." There was only a slight hesitation. "Where you go, I go, Milord. It is you who is in danger here." Standing, he pulled her to her feet, and gathered her robe from the chair. "There are clothes in the skiff. We must hurry." A muffled curse came from outside the door, then a bump, another curse, a jiggle of the door handle. Brelan's angry voice demanded the portal be opened. Something hard hit the oaken panel and Brelan's voice raised in alarm. "Elizabeth?" he shouted as the door shook with the force of his weight. "Open the door!" Conar jerked his wife toward the armoire and shoved her clothes to one side. He ran his hand along the back of the cabinet, cursing. "What are you doing?" she whispered, turning with fear to the door. "A hidden passageway," he mumbled as he flipped up a lock and the back of the armoire opened into a dark hallway. "What?" she gasped. He swung her into the narrow corridor. He nudged her to one side, then moved the panel back in place, shutting out all light. He slid his hand along the panel until he found the latch. He threw the bolt, then fumbled for her hand in the

pitch-black darkness. "Trust me," he said and began to pull her down the corridor. Behind them, a splintering noise echoed through the corridor. His bedroom had been breached. They faintly heard angry shouts and curses. Pulling his wife down the long corridor, Conar felt sweat trickling down his back. Unable to see, feeling the air being driven out of his lungs from the suffocating grip of the enclosed space, he had to make himself keep walking. He was already gasping for air in the confines of the hallway. The claustrophobic agony of being squeezed to death left him weak and panting. By the time Liza realized his plight, she put a steadying, calming arm around his waist. She could smell the fresh air ahead and pushed past him, wedging him to one side so she could lead the way. A faint halo of light beckoned to her and she guided him to an arrow slit. Leaning his hot forehead against the cool sea breeze pouring in through the slit, Conar willed his knees not to buckle and his hands to stop shaking. He was quivering all over and his gasps for air were labored and painful to hear. With his face pressed to the slight strip of light, he took huge gulps of the fresh air and realized his heart was beating faster than he ever knew it could. "Conar," Liza whispered and heard a slight whimper escape his throat. She took him in her arms, unable to understand the extent of his terror, but perceptive enough to know he was going through a hell on earth. She smoothed back a lock of damp hair that fell into his eyes. "I am here with you, Beloved." Clutching her tightly to him, he drew on her strength until he was sure he could lead them out of the corridor. Knowing Brelan would remember the secret wall inside the armoire, he realized they didn't have that much time before someone crashed through the false back. "I'm all right," he managed to say and drew out of her arms. He took a deep breath and walked on trembling legs to the next arrow slit, bent and pried open the trap door he left unlocked earlier that afternoon. He stepped onto the stairs leading into the far reaches of the wine cellar. Cool drafts of musky air swirled around the stone steps as, with Liza's hand now gripped in his, he descended. Once he had his wife at the bottom, he hastily climbed the stairs and bolted the trapdoor. "Where does this lead?" Liza asked as he joined her. She looked at wine casks and stone walls and a single door at the farthest end of the room that she assumed must lead to the kitchens. "There's a secret passageway behind this cask. I hope to the gods I'm the only one who remembers how to get out of here." He gripped the round front of a three-foot-wide cask. It swung outward on rusty hinges. "It goes into the Grotto." He motioned her ahead of him. Liza stepped into the opening and felt a chill wind lapping through the small antechamber. When he closed the hatchway behind him, she turned. "Who else knows about this passage?" "Brelan, but we should have enough time to make it to the skiff before he gets here." He began leading her toward a milky light. "I came up through that way, leaving plenty of evidence of my passing. I would have come to you sooner, but the damned catch on the inside of the armoire was thrown and I couldn't pry it loose." Her face blanched. "That was you? Chand thought there were mice in there and even opened the door to see. My god, Conar. He could have seen you!" "I'd have worried if that had happened." There was a flood of bright light. Cobwebs stretched across a low archway. Conar knocked them away before reaching his hand to Liza. Once she was through the archway, he shouldered what appeared to be a slab of heavy rock back into its niche. "Almost there." He pulled her down a short tunnel and into a small section of a stalactite-laden chamber, and then into the vast opening of the Widow's Grotto. They crossed the cavern, but as they neared the archway that jutted back into the mountain, he realized his luck had run out. In the tunnel, blocking his way, stood Legion and four palace guards. Liza groaned and clutched his arm.

"It's all right," he said, smiling, reassuring her, before he eased her fingers from his arm. He gently pushed her away, put up a hand when she tried to clutch him again. "No, love." "Let him go, Legion!" she begged, placing herself between her husband and the men. "He hasn't done anything wrong." Legion's eyes were sad, wary, as he looked past her to Conar. "You shouldn't have run." Conar could see the resolve on Legion's face and knew he would arrest him. He couldn't let that happen. He had one chance to make it back the way he had come and he meant to take it. "Goodbye, dearling," he whispered and stepped back. "Conar, no!" Liza cried, reaching for him, but he spun away and broke into a run. "Get her out of here!" Legion snapped to one of the guards, rushing past Liza. He heard her shriek of protest and glanced back to see the guard flinging Liza over his shoulder and hurrying past the others to take her to safety. Lgion turned to see Conar disappearing around the bend beyond the far wall of the Grotto. Conar made it as far as the secret rock panel before he heard the scraping of another panel off to his right. He darted his eyes to the sound and knew it would be only a matter of seconds before men came pouring out of the wine cellar. He dared not go back the way from which he had just come, for he knew Legion and his men were closing in behind. He reached out for the panel before him and the color drained from his face. The panel began to move toward him. He didn't even have time to think about what to do next. His only chance, his only hope, was the pool of water in the Grotto; his only way to reach it was to bulldoze past Legion who was no doubt barring the way. He had never tried to plumb the depths of the bubbling pool, but he knew the water fed into the sea. How far down he had to dive, and how long he had to do so weren't a consideration. He pivoted and shot back through the small chamber. Knowing he might drown was the only drawback of that way to freedom, but he couldn't let himself think about it. As he ran toward the water, he barreled past Legion, knocking the older man sideways into the cavern wall. When he reached the pool, he had a momentary glimpse of the other guards who had accompanied Legion hurrying forward. He arched his body toward the murky green depths. Then something hit him from behind, something hard and sharp. He twisted in agony, his spine throbbing all the way to his tailbone. As he twisted, he fell at the edge of the water, rolled, and half-tumbled into the pool. Hands caught his clothing before he could slide into the green depths. His shirt ripped from one shoulder; nails dug painfully into his flesh as someone clawed at him. He winced, howled in pain, and lashed out with one foot, connecting with a soft midsection before another strong hand gripped his ankle and dragged him onto the bank. He kicked out again, caught another man in the groin, and managed to scramble up on all fours. He had just gained his feet when someone shoved him. He stumbled to his knees in the shifting sand, badly twisting his ankle and yelping. Despite the shooting agony in his spine and ankle, he managed to roll away and get to his feet. His hand went to the dagger that rested behind his back in the waistband of his breeches. He drew it out, palmed it until he clutched the deadly weapon in a fighting position, blade edge down. "Don't be a fool, Conar," Legion called in an exasperated voice. He limped toward his brother. "Violence never settled anything. Put down the knife and let's talk." "And then what, Legion?" "You'll have to come with me." "If I won't?"

"For the love of Alel! Don't make this any harder for me than it already is." He took a few steps forward, but Conar thrust the knife toward him. "Don't do that!" "What choice have they given me? They won't listen to what I have to say. I've already been tried and convicted." A snide smile touched Conar's full lips. "Will I even get a trial?" "The Tribunal will decide. It was out of Papa's hands the moment you ran." A wry laugh left the finely chiseled lips. "What do you think the verdict was? Imprisonment? Exile? Hanging? Or just a prolonged stay with the Inquisitor until I have no mind left?" Legion flinched, the choices too horrid to imagine. He eased to his right, aware of the nine men, men he didn't even know, who just joined the other three behind him. He looked for Brelan, didn't see him, didn't see anyone he knew, and turned back to Conar. "Give yourself up, Conar. If you fight, there's going to be bloodshed." Conar swung his gaze around the cavern, seeing hatred and bloodlust on the faces of the twelve men staring at him. He felt a stab of intense fear go through him and knew if these men got the chance they'd kill him anyway. He shook his head. "Not as long as there's a breath in my body and strength in my blade. I have done nothing wrong." "You have no choice, Conar!" "I am making my own choice." "Not this time," Legion warned, shaking his head at the boy's stubbornness. Didn't he realize how dangerous his position was? "The choice was made for you when you ran." There was pleading in Conar's eyes, pleading for understanding, but his voice was as steady as his dagger's sharp edge. "If you take me back, the Tribunal will see me in hell before they're finished with me. Kaileel and Tolkan will make sure of it. Is that what you want?" "That isn't what I want, but you haven't given me an alternative! There's no way you can leave here, Conar. How long do you think you can hold out against us?" "Until I am either free or dead." "I don't want to see you hurt, Coni. I want no bloodshed, especially not yours." "Then take your men and leave. Stay, and I promise, blood will flow. Mine and yours." Legion took a deep breath. He headed straight for Conar. "You won't kill me." "I'm warning you, A'Lex!" There was a note of pain in Conar's voice. "I swear to the gods I'll use this. Stay the hell away from me!" "I can't." Conar backed up, was startled when he encountered the stone wall, then glanced sideways, his knife held rigidly in his fist, searching for an exit. One of the guards lobbed a rock. It hit Conar on the collarbone, startling him, numbing his arm all the way down to his fingers, making him lose the dagger. That was all Legion needed. He leapt across the distance between him and Conar. One mighty fist exploded into Conar's face, arching him sideways and sending him plummeting. "No!" Legion yelled just before a savage kick landed solidly in the small of Conar's back and the young man cried out with pain. "No, I said! Leave him alone!" Legion rushed forward, yanked one man out of his way, backhanded a second, shoved a third away from his prone brother, and hit another who reached out to grasp a handful of Conar's hair. "Get the hell away from him!" Conar tried to scramble away from the men. He was barely aware of Legion struggling with two who had leapt forward to take hold of the older man. He saw a guard slam the hilt of his sword against the side of Legion's head, and watched as his brother fell. "Legion!"

Another booted foot caught Conar in his ribcage. Even before he could draw breath, another foot slammed into his other side and he felt a rib cave in. Gasping with pain, calling his brother's name, he drew up his knees to avoid a kick aimed at his crotch. The kick, instead, connected sharply with his thigh and he felt the searing agony all the way to the soles of his feet. "Get him up!" the man who seemed to be in charge yelled. "Get the bastard up!" Two men pulled Conar to his feet, jammed his arms behind his back and pulled up fiercely on them. He didn't recognize a single man there. "You remember me, Highness?" the leader sneered as he got in Conar's face. "My name be Kullen. That sound familiar to you?" "I don't know you." "Youwill remember me, you little fuck!" the man screamed and spittle flew into Conar's face while a heavy fist jammed into Conar's gut. He doubled over the pain, his breath leaving him in a loud whoosh. "Remember me, now?" Conar shook his head, his knees weak as pain in his spine, ribs, and belly coursed through him. "You don't?" came the sing-song whisper. Looking at his companions, the man threw back his greasy head and laughed. "But we've met before, Your Royal Little Shit. You recall where?" When Conar again shook his head, the man grabbed a handful of Conar's hair and jerked back his head. He placed his other heavily callused hand up to span Conar's arching, straining neck. "Think!" Conar looked into the guard's vicious eyes and vaguely remembered, but he couldn't recall where or when or under what circumstances. "Take a good look, Highness!" the man spat. His grip around Conar's throat tightened, his thumb and forefinger pressing hard into the windpipe. Conar tried to swallow but the constriction on his throat prevented him. "Look at me, I told you!" He saw a battered, hooked nose tipped slightly to one side. He estimated the man to be in his seventies, but the bullish strength in the man's hands contradicted that. Slick fading red hair covered the man's large skull and dipped down into muttonchop sideburns that curled under the chin, but didn't quite meet. "I don't remember," he gasped, feeling the pressure tighten painfully on his windpipe. "The hell you don't! That bitch wife of yours killed two good men that day at the Hound and Stag and you wanted me sent to the Labyrinth, but the Tribunal sent me to Ghurn, instead. Rememberthat , Highness?" he screeched. "I asked for mercy and you showed me none!" The fingers crushed his windpipe. "You fucked with me, and now you're gonna pay!" "Beat him, Kullen!" one man yelled. "Aye! Work him over good!" "Mess up that pretty face of his!" Kullen glanced behind him. He saw a man standing in the archway of the tunnel leading to the outside. "Milord?" Kullen asked. "What'll it be?" Thin lips raised into a vicious, retaliatory smile before soft, lovely words came to Kullen's ear. "Hurt him." Kullen turned back to Conar. "My pleasure, Your Grace." From his place in the archway, Prince Galen McGregor, Conar's twin, the man employing this group of bullies, stood with his arms folded over his chest and watched.

*** "Where the hell have you been?" Legion growled as he glared at Brelan. Saur, Chand Wynth, and Sentian Heil had just entered the cavern. "I got cold-cocked in Conar's bedroom," Brelan snapped. From his place beside Legion A'Lex, Teal du Mer, glanced at Brelan's furious face. "Someone hit you?" Brelan's lip curled. "I didn't knock myself out, asshole!" Legion struggled to his feet, wincing as pain lashed through his head. "Where's Conar?" "How the hell should I know? Didn't you catch him?" Brelan saw Legion wobble. "What's wrong with you?" Du Mer stood, also. He had been sitting on a rock beside Legion. "I found him lying here. They must have found Conar while he was unconscious." Chandling Wynth, youngest Prince of Oceania and brother-in-law to Conar McGregor, glanced at the ground near the Grotto's pool where the sand was swirled. He bent down and his face turned white. "There's blood everywhere!" He looked at Brelan. "What did they do to him?" "Beat the shit out of him," Legion snapped and had to sit down, for his head was spinning. Sentian turned vicious eyes at Legion. "If you hadn't sent me off on a wild goose chase—" "You couldn't have stood up to twelve men, Heil," Legion said, wearily. "Maybe not, but I'd have died trying!" "Where'd they take him?" Chand asked. "To the Interrogation Facility of the Tribunal Hall," Hern Arbra snapped as he thundered through the outside tunnel. "You were supposed to be protecting his back, A'Lex! What happened?" Legion's head snapped up. A groan parted his lips, but he quelled the pain and nausea. "We've got to get him out of there." Brelan shook his head. "They never let anyone in to see prisoners." "I'llsee him," Legion shot back. "You won't," Hern shouted. "I've already tried!" "And?" "No one is allowed in there." His blunt features turned hard as stone. "Not even the King, they told me." "Why not?" Sentian asked. "What don't they want us to know?" "It's what they don't want you to see," Brelan countered. "What do you mean?" Chand asked. "What are they doing?" Brelan turned an exasperated expression to the young Prince. "What doyou think they do to prisoners in there, Wynth?" "They can't torture Conar," Teal reminded him. "He's royalty." Brelan spat. "He's been disinherited! Or did you conveniently forget that?" "But they have no reason to torture Conar!" Chand cried.

"They don't need a reason," Brelan snarled. "But why?" "For his confession, fool!" "He's innocent. He won't sign a confession to something he didn't do," Sentian corrected. "A lot of innocent men have swung from the scaffolding, Heil," Brelan reminded him. "They could hang Conar?" Chand whispered. "They could," Brelan answered. "No, they can't!" Teal took a step toward Saur and glared into the man's face. "I may not know much of anything else, but I do know Serenian law! I've had to learn it over the years. They can't hang royalty or they would have hung my brother, Roget!" "He's been disinherited!" Brelan bellowed. "It doesn't matter! He was born royalty; he was christened royalty; he was raised royalty! You and me"—Teal pointed to himself and Brelan Saur—"we can be hanged, and probably will be one day! But they can't hang Conar!" Dark lines of fury mottled his gypsy complexion. "But they can tie him to the whipping post and you can bet your last copper piece they will!" "That's enough!" Legion yelled. "Arguing about this won't help Conar." "What do we do now?" Sentian inquired as he looked at Legion A'Lex, the man he blamed for Conar's predicament. Legion shook his head, and wished he hadn't. "What do you think, Brelan?" Saur was staring at several splatters of blood on the wall beside him. The sight of it turned his stomach. It also made him furious, furious with Conar, with himself, at the fates that brought them all to this sorry pass. "Brelan?" Saur winced. A shiny white object lay on the glistening sand. He bent over, ignoring his name a second time, and picked up a shattered tooth. "Brelan?" Legion asked for the third time. Against the dark tan of his flesh, the enamel was very white, although the broken edge was tinted with a bit of pale yellow dentin. It was a front tooth, perhaps an incisor. There wasn't much of it, but there was enough. "Damn it, Brelan! Are you listening?" He raised his head and stared into Legion's face. He tossed the tooth in the air, caught it and closed his fingers around it. "We can't do a damned thing to help him." Hern's voice was sharp, filled with hatred for the man who had just spoken. "So we just let them have him, is that it? Let them torture the boy?" Brelan swung toward the man. "What do you suggest, Arbra?" "We could gather some men, storm the Tribunal Hall," Sentian suggested. "We could take him out and…" Saur pointed his finger at Heil. "Aye, you do that, Sentian! And while you're at it, you'd better have someone building his casket. Because before you and your men get even a third of the way inside the Interrogation Facilities, the guards will have looped a noose around his neck and hung him in his cell. They'll swear before gods and men that Conar killed himself rather than be brought before the Tribunal to be condemned as a traitor!" Sentian took Hern's arm. "We can use the stones to…" Sentian began.

"Shut your mouth, Heil!" Brelan narrowed his eyes in warning. "You got away with that once, but you can bet they know who you are now. They will be expecting you." Hern blinked. "How the hell do you know what we did?" "Elizabeth told me!" Hern exchanged a look with Sentian. "He may be right." "There has to be something we can do!" Chand shouted, his hands in his hair. "We just can't leave him there!" Brelan pocketed the tooth. "What choice do we have? Conar can't be touched, now!"

Chapter 13 Kaileel Tohre's hands were folded inside the sleeves of his blood-red robe. He sat with his bare feet crossed at the ankles, a pleasant smile on his thin lips, his pale blue eyes twinkling with humor. He waited patiently for the members of the Synod of Justice to grant him an audience. He looked around the opulent reception room, taking in the gilt furniture, the plush carpets, the silken tapestries, the heavy oak paneling and satin-covered chairs. He glanced with distaste at the royal coat of arms hanging over the marble fireplace at the far end of the room and his nostrils quivered with loathing. By all that was right, he should have been born to the purple. If King Thiels had but only recognized him as his son… The door into the Tribunal Hall of Justice opened. "The Synod will see you now, Your Eminence," one of the acolytes said in a hushed, respectful voice, bowing as Tohre stood. Inclining his head to the men sitting at the black, crescent-shaped table, Tohre took his place in the chair before the Synod. Adjusting the folds of his robe around him, he laid calm hands on the chair arms and waited until the guards and acolytes closed the door behind them, leaving the five members of the Synod and Tohre alone. Kaileel smiled. "At long last," Tolkan Coure breathed. "But nevertheless, done, Your Holiness," Tohre answered. "You have not questioned him, as yet?" one of the Synod members politely inquired. "No, Your Honor. Not without your official sanction." One of the four men who flanked Tolkan stood and offered a rolled parchment to Tohre. "We believe you will find this all the authority you will need, Brother Tohre." With eager hands, Kaileel accepted the parchment. His heart beat with hard pumps as he eased the ribbon encircling the missive. He broke the black wax seal, unrolled the parchment, and scanned the contents. He searched expectantly for the one phrase he had been waiting to see. When he spied the sentence, he took in a deep, satisfying breath. "We trust this meets with your approval, Tohre?" Tolkan asked. "It is more than I had dared hope for, Holiness."

Tolkan grinned. "We are happy to see you pleased with our labors. We searched long and hard through the Tomes of Law until we found just the right precedent. There, written by our ancestors, were the examples we needed to see this thing done to our satisfaction. To see it finished." "It was an unexpected stroke of good fortune that our King had his son declared a commoner, wouldn't you say, Brother Kaileel?" another Synod member asked. Chuckling softly to himself, Kaileel rolled up the parchment, slipped the ribbon around it, and hid it in the folds of his robe. "It was indeed fortuitous, Your Honor." Tolkan smiled ."Should you not be about your business, now, Kaileel?" Kaileel stood and bowed. "I do have things to see to, Holiness." A Synodist chuckled. "Do them well, Tohre." "I will do my very best, Your Honor!" *** Light snow fell against the windowpanes, sticking, melting, making the faintest of clicking sounds as they gathered against the glass. The air was chill and damp, and the room smelled sharply of creosote from the fireplace. There had been a cheerful fire burning in the grate, but it had been allowed to die, the coals still sizzling and popping, red-tinged. Otherwise, the room was dark except for the burning candle that stood beside Liza's bed. Legion stomped angrily to the fireplace and stirred the coals to life, adding a log to the glowing mass. "Dixon!" he bellowed. "Who let this fire go out?" Liza sighed. She knew he needed someone on whom to vent his frustration, so she kept silent as she sat on her bed and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. She was tired, bone-tired, and had a headache that continued to plague her. She rubbed at her temple with a cool hand. Finally getting the fire to blaze as he wanted, Legion turned to make another waspish remark, but seeing the tired droop of Liza's shoulders, he silently cursed the ill fate that had brought them to this point. "I am all right, Legion," she told him, aware of his look. His face flushed; he looked away. Would he ever get used to this woman's uncanny insight into his heart? He warmed his hands before the fire. "You should rest, Liza." "I will." "Soon." "As soon as you do, Milord. Was it worse than usual?" Legion shrugged, feeling her gaze on him. "They still wouldn't let me see him. They said we had to wait until the trial. That's supposed to be at the end of the week unless they postpone it—again." Her lips trembled. "Legion, hold me." Turning, he saw the tears glistening and hurried to her. He sat beside her and gathered her in his arms. He felt her quivering body, heard the soft sobs, and wished there was something he could do to ease her pain. "You know my powers, Legion," she whispered against his shirt. "You know something of what Conar's mother was capable. I have had no success in being able to go to him. They have blocked me at every turn. I should be able to at least see him, but even that is being stopped." "I know." It was all he could say. He had done everything he could to find out how Conar was doing, where they had him in the Interrogation Facility. He was fairly certain he had been taken to the one of the punishment cells, but no one could, or would, tell him for sure. Access to those cells was denied to everyone except the Chief Inquisitor and his assistants.

"With you unconscious, Legion, they could have done anything to him! He wouldn't have been able to protect himself because of his grief. Nadia's death would have had the same devastating effect on his powers as it did on mine." Legion could only nod. "Such grief numbs you, Legion, numbs your powers. It temporarily halts any flow of energy." She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "It hinders you from using your gift." "Aye, love. I know." "And if he's somewhere where there are walls of iron, where his magic is useless, where he can't call to me…" He wouldn't let her finish. "You can't go on blaming yourself for not being able to help him." He stroked her cheek. "He'll be fine, Liza. You'll see." "I am so afraid for him." Her breath caught in her throat; her sobbing became uncontrollable. "So am I, dearling. So am I." *** A single ray of early morning light fell through the barred windows of the holding cell and wove a criss-crossed pattern of shadow and light on the stone floor. The rest of the cell was black, hidden in darkness. The beam of light, flooded with motes of dust, cascaded down from the ceiling. In the center of the square of light knelt a man. His hands were behind his back, a length of rope tightly tied around his wrists, and his arms pressed painfully close at the elbows. He was bent over from the pull of the rope that ran above his head to an iron bar in the low ceiling. The strain on his arms was excruciating. Lank, blond hair fell around his face, over his forehead. His face was pinched in agony, his breathing labored. Small whimpers escaped his parched throat through lips so swollen they could barely open. His cracked ribs grated with every breath. He couldn't see the light, for his eyes were swollen shut, or even feel what little warmth it afforded him. He did, however, feel the moistness of his urine, for he knelt in it. The smell made him sick to his stomach, but the gag covering his mouth prevented him from even thinking of vomiting. He hurt in a hundred different places, bled in a dozen more. Thrusting his tongue against his chipped front tooth, he winced, feeling the exposed nerve, then swallowed painfully against the deep bruises along his throat. His palms stung with burning pain that snaked up his arms to coalesce in his armpits. "Aren't you a sight, Milord Conar?" Someone chuckled. The bars of his cell rattled. "I don't suppose you will be tempting any servant girls anytime soon." He tried to blot out the taunting laughter, tried to shut out the sounds of the funeral bells tolling outside the prison. They were burying his daughter. He wished with all his heart Tymothy Kullen had killed him. *** It was almost dawn of the sixth day after Conar's capture that his father finally awoke, coming to himself with clarity. He saw his daughter-in-law fitfully sleeping in the chair beside his bed. Tenderness filled his face. With an unsteady hand, he stroked her arm. Liza came immediately awake. She saw his faded blue eyes, untouched by the ragging fever that had gripped him. "You are better!" Gerren smiled as she came to hover over him, to run her hand over his cool flesh. "I'll live," he teased, "no thanks to whoever meant to see that I didn't." He saw her face darken and knew before even being told. "How long has he been

in their custody?" "This is the sixth day, Papa." She sat on his bed and took his hand, brought it to her cheek. "He didn't have any part in what was done to you." Gerren nodded, his guilt riding him like a cruel master. "I know." Tears formed. "Nadia?" Liza's head fell. "We buried her five days ago." "I am sorry, dearling." "It is your son you should worry about." He ran a weak hand through his faded blond hair. "You are right. Find Legion for me. Is Brelan still here?" At her nod, he took a deep breath. "Get him, as well. Tell them I must know what the Tribunal has done with my son." He pushed himself up, wincing from his wounds. "Lie still!" she warned, alarmed at his sudden pallor. "If you want your husband seen to, Liza, I must make the Tribunal know I will stand behind him. I will not let them punish my boy for something he has not done." "They have already denied Hern, Legion and Cayn access to him. They say he's guilty. They mean to try him soon, but the verdict has already been handed down." The King's heart felt heavy. He had a made a horrible, horrible error. In the pique of anger he had disinherited his son. Now, the Tribunal could turn that against Conar and question him as they would a commoner. They might have already done so. "Listen, girl. Men who wore the insignia and uniform of Conar's Elite attacked me. They told me he had ordered my death, but apparently hit no vital organs else I wouldn't be here speaking with you. Men intent on the kill make sure they do just that. Whoever was responsible for the attack meant for me to survive. They also wanted Conar to take the blame." The king squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the coverlet in his fist. "I made a terrible, terrible mistake, Liza. And Grandfather is very angry at me." Liza's forehead crinkled. "Grandfather?" Gerren sighed heavily. "Alel, our Maker. He is furious at what I have done." He looked at his daughter-in-law with such heartrending sadness, she felt tears forming in her eyes. "You were angry." "Alel made me see that what Conar did to protect you had been predestined long before either of you were born." Gerren took a ragged breath. "It was a trial Conar had to go through and I made it harder for him." "He will understand, Papa." "He is my son," Gerren said firmly. "I can not undo what I have done, but I can let Tohre and that filthy bunch know I will not countenance them hurting my boy!"

Chapter 14 "I will see that look of defiance wiped from your face!" Tohre screamed at the bound man. Conar sat in an iron chair bolted to the stone floor with thick rods of steel. It lay in the middle of the Inquisition Chamber and had no bottom other than two wide leather straps. Conar's wrists and ankles were tied with thin thongs

of coarse rawhide to the chair's arms and legs and a thick band of hemp ran across his throat and through the tall back of the straight, rigid chair. He was bare from the waist up and another wide piece of hemp crossed his chest. Fresh bruises and cuts marred his pale face and blotches of welts lined his upper arms and shoulders. Blood trickled from a cut on his mouth, oozed out of his left nostril. Small circles of discolored, puckered flesh dotted the tender undersides of his forearms and the backs of his knees. "Get that look off your face, I told you!" Cuts and ugly bruises mottled the handsome face, but the eyes were steady despite the swelling and puffiness, the droop of one badly bruised lid. It infuriated Tohre that the boy had not, as yet, made a single sound while being questioned these past three days. He slapped the helpless man across the mouth as hard as he could, further splitting the already wounded lip. Conar's head wearily snapped to one side, his throat dragging painfully against the hemp around his neck. Tohre's backhanded blow had enough force to loosen another tooth. He could taste the salt spray of blood inside his mouth, but he managed to ease around his head. He looked up at the priest with his one good eye. Hostility filled the watering blue depths. He gathered enough saliva and blood to try spitting into Kaileel's looming face. The High Priest leaned over his prey, the better to see the pain as it registered on Conar's battered face. He had not expected the assault, but was quick enough to pull his face out of the way. "You would dare spit at me, boy?" An irrational fury surged through Tohre. He sharply yanked a handful of limp, greasy, dirty blond hair, then slammed Conar's head against the metal chair. It delighted him when the grunt came from the bleeding mouth, the very first sound the boy had made since being brought in. Tohre chuckled. "Good!" His voice turned syrupy. "Until now I have been patient. Gentle." Conar snorted. "You don't think I've been gentle?" Conar startled the man by spitting full in Tohre's face, and had the satisfaction of seeing Tohre's cheeks turn white with disbelief. Kaileel slowly raised his free hand and wiped at the pink-tinged spittle on his lean face. He looked at the wetness on his fingers, then looked at Conar. His voice filled with incredulity, voicing his surprise. "You spit in my face, Conar?" Conar tried to gather another mouthful of spittle, but Tohre clamped a hand across his mouth. "And you would try to do so again?" Stark fury lit his usually pale orbs. The hand cruelly tightened over Conar's mouth. "I can't believe you'd dare!" He leaned over Conar. The two men came nose to nose even though Tohre spoke to the Chief Interrogator, who, until that time, had not been allowed free reign with the prisoner. "I want him pushed to the very limits of endurance and beyond. Do you hear me, Hebra? Show no mercy, no leniency. I will see this stubborn pride crushed!" He glared into Conar's upturned face. "See that he understands what defying me can bring!" Tohre took his hand from Conar's mouth, but stepped away quickly before the young man could spit again. He turned on his heel, his face set with anger, and started from the room. "Kaileel?" Conar's weak voice called. The High Priest spun around. There was a slight grimace of a smile on Conar's torn face. Kaileel waited, his breathing fast and hard as he watched the bleeding lips try to form words. "Fuck yourself," the Prince whispered. Kaileel nearly choked on his rage. He straightened his shoulders, reached inside his robe for his handkerchief, and

withdrew the soiled linen square. Calmly, with purpose and determination, he walked to Conar. He stepped behind the chair and looped the rag around Conar's head, jamming it between clenched teeth, and smiled as Conar struggled to get loose. The High Priest came in front of his prisoner, bent forward, placing his hands over Conar's arms as they lay strapped to the chair. "You still don't understand?" Kaileel crooned. His long nails dug into Conar's flesh. "Let's see how well you can learn your lessons." He raked his nails down Conar's arms, drawing blood. In the shadows of the Interrogation Chamber, out of Conar's sight, Galen McGregor smiled. *** Lord Brelan Saur sat on a log beside a blazing fire in the courtyard just beyond the covered walkway leading to the Temple. He stared across the darkened compound to the massive black oaken doors of the Tribunal Hall, conscious of the men sitting around the fire with him, their quiet mutterings soft and subdued. No one looked his way. It wasn't out of politeness, he knew, but rather a concerted effort at ignoring him. He had seen the hostility when he joined them, had caught their furtive sidelong glances, but he paid scant attention. What did it matter what these peasants did or didnot think? He tuned out their talk, concentrating on the guards as they patrolled the Tribunal Hall. He counted the times they passed the double doors. His bleak thoughts were on the conversation he had overheard outside his father's room. "He could have helped, Papa!" Legion had said furiously. "The petty bastard could have helped us." The King's eldest son strode heavily across the floor. "He's a selfish son-of-a-bitch!" "It was his choice to make," Liza defended. "Aye, well, Conar is as much his brother as he is mine. I know there is bad blood between them, but there should be family loyalty if nothing else!" "Brelan doesn't see his position in the same way," Teal du Mer remarked. Legion jerked open the door. "But we need his help, du Mer. Conar's life may well depend on it!" He turned, surprised to see the man he had been discussing staring at him from the hallway. Legion's lips curled with distaste as he stormed from the room, shoving Brelan aside. Liza called to her brother-in-law, "Bre will help in his own way, Legion. I know he will." A'Lex spun around and fastened his hawk-like gaze on Brelan. "You have more faith in the selfish bastard than I, Liza!" Brelan was not as insensitive to his brother's predicament as one would have believed. He knew all too well what went on inside those black oaken doors. As a child he had found a tunnel that led to the punishment cells where the condemned were kept. Venturing there out of curiosity only a few times had been enough to tell the boy he had no business being amidst the instruments of death, torture, and crippling. He sat brooding, rethinking the words he'd shouted when the older man had asked for any help he could give in removing their brother from the Tribunal Hall's Interrogation Facility. He'd been curt, to the point, telling Legion he had no intention of doing anything. Neither did he plan on doing anything that might jeopardize Conar. His words to Legion and their father rang in his ears. "If Conar isn't guilty of the actual attack, Papa, he's at least guilty of being the it's cause!" In truth, that was more than likely so. Brelan didn't really think his brother capable of planning such a vile thing, but his men might have if they'd thought he wanted it. In that, Brelan had been sure Conar was guilty. Now, Brelan wasn't so sure. Legion reminded him of how the Elite, who had been taken from their homes at sword point and incarcerated in the Interrogation Facility, had been tortured. Their screams filtered out of the thick stone walls and stunned anyone unfortunate enough to hear. It had been many decades since those torture chambers had been used. Why, now, were

they being reopened? If the men were guilty, why torture them into confession? If the men did their dirty deed for Conar, would they not have bragged, instead, to gain his pride and love? And why hadn't Conar's trial been announced? He had been held in the punishment cell for more than two weeks. No one, not even his King, had been allowed to see him. That, in itself, was not unusual; that was law. But why had no date for the trail been posted if they had Conar's signed confession as they claimed? Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Brelan now stared hard at the double doors and wondered if he should tell Legion about the secret tunnel leading from the stables to the punishment cells. He had been toying with the notion of going himself to see what he could find, but for some reason he didn't want to see what might have happened to Conar, or what might be happening to him still. Would it do any good if they managed to sneak in to see him? Would it make matters worse? He felt the hair on his arms rise as an unearthly scream of torment burst from the depths of the Tribunal Hall. His face turned white; he sucked in his breath. Another piercing scream set his teeth on edge. He could feel the victim staring at him; he could feel the silent rage, condemnation. He looked up and demanded, "What do you think I can do?" No one answered. Another scream tore across the courtyard. "There is nothing I can do!" Brelan got up, walking away as fast as he could. "No matter what you feel about him, he would do all he could to help you, Brelan, if the tables were turned!" Hern shouted from the stable. "And well you know it, coward!" Spinning around, Brelan stared hard at the Master-at-Arms. Furious and suddenly cold, he shuddered as another choked-off scream shot across the night air. "That's not Conar!" he spat, flinging his arm toward the Tribunal Hall. Teal du Mer sat on a bench and watched as Brelan walked briskly away. He and Saur had betrayed Conar in different ways, but they had both turned their backs when he needed them. Remembering the feel of the Prince's dead child clutched in his arms, Teal felt tears of impotent rage coursing through him. He let out a bellow, throwing back his head to the starless night. He alone had been the first to turn on Conar. "They're torturing him, aren't they?" Thom asked Hern as the old warrior sat with them. "I can't say for sure," Hern answered, lying. He was sure. In fact, he was positive. The screams were not from the original six men who had been captured two weeks earlier. For all Hern knew, those men were dead. No, the screams were Conar's. He knew that sound well. He had heard the boy scream many times over the years when his nightmares had claimed him. "He's of royal blood," Teal snapped. "They can whip him, but they can't torture him." He glowered at Thom, seeing the grief on the big man's face. Aye, Teal thought, he was feeling grief; they were all feeling grief. But he, himself, was feeling overwhelming despair and shame at having forsaken Conar. He had forsaken his own brother, Roget, in much the same way when the Tribunal arrested Roget for treason many years earlier. The pattern was repeating itself, and Teal was sick to his soul. He had known Conar all his life; he had been a friend of the Prince's for as long as the word had meaning to him. Now, he had turned on that friend when he was needed the most. "Why can't the King do something?" Marsh snarled, getting up as another scream tore through them. "What can they do? You heard Saur telling the Commander there was no law that would allow them access to His Grace's cell. They haven't been allowed to him because they have to abide by the Tribunal laws!" Lin Dixon jerked his head in the direction of the keep. "It's bad enough keeping her from knowing what's going on. Can you imagine how she would react if she knew her husband was being…" He broke off, unable to say the word. Inside the keep where the doors had been firmly locked against the sounds coming from the Tribunal Hall, Prince Grice Wynth and his young brother, Chand, sat at the banqueting table where they had been dining alone. Liza had not left her father-in-law's chambers in more than a week. Legion and du Mer, Brelan Saur and Hern Arbra took their meals in the kitchens. Only the Healer, Cayn, dined with the Oceanian Princes out of courtesy and, in part, curiosity about the men. Deep in conversation, the men didn't at first notice the ten-year-old boy who hid in the shadows watching them. Looking up as he felt eyes on him, Chand smiled and motioned for Wyn, Conar's eldest illegitimate son, to join them.

"How are you, Wynland?" Grice asked, tousling the young man's thick crop of blond curls. Wyn asked in a small, frightened voice, speaking to Chand, "Do you hear the screams?" Grice sent his brother a warning shake of the head. He covered Wyn's hand with his own. "Those sounds are not from your father, Wyn." Wyn turned to the older man. "How can you be sure, Highness? I hear people talking." "What people, son?" "The old cook, you know, Sadie, in the kitchens? She says it's my Papa that's doing all that screaming. She says they've already questioned the others and now they're questioning Papa." "Come here, Wyn," Grice demanded. He patted the chair beside him. "Let's talk." He waited until the boy was seated, then put his arm around the back of Wyn's chair. "Your father is of royal blood and they can't lay a hand to him. He either signs a confession or he doesn't. They can't do anything else." "Grice is right, Wynland," Chand agreed, knowing he could well be telling the boy a boldfaced lie. "That's some other man screaming. Not your Papa." "But that man's innocent, too, Your Grace!" Wyn protested. His young voice grew thick with emotion. "My Papa's men would never do anything like that!" "Neither would your father," Grice agreed. "You hate my Papa!" Wyn shouted, standing up so fast he knocked down the chair. "Everybody knows you hate my Papa!" He ran his sleeve under his dripping nose. "Bantling, I don't always agree with what your Papa does, but I don't hate him," Grice said. "I know he's innocent of the charges against him. Such as was done to your Grandpapa would not be your Papa's way. I know that." Wyn's head dropped to his chest as fresh tears welled. "They're going to kill him." "They are not!" Chand nearly shouted. He gathered the boy in his arms. "We will not allow it! By the gods, I promise you that!" Grice laid a hand on Wyn's shoulder. "They can do no more than exile him, Wyn." He caught Chand's look of worry, then shook his head to let his brother know Conar's son had no business knowing otherwise. *** "Are you sure you can locate this tunnel again?" King Gerren asked Brelan. "I know I can. If you'd like, I'll find Legion and tell him how to go about locating it and opening the secret door." He stood, but his father's words stopped him. "Tell me. I'll go myself." Brelan Saur's mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious, Papa!" "I'm well enough to make the trek, if that's what concerns you, Brelan. Legion is with Liza. I will not take any chances that she might hear…" He paused, swallowing. "Cayn has given her something to keep her unaware of those pitifully hideous screams coming from the Tribunal Hall." At the memory of hearing them, the King shuddered. They could not have come from his son, but whoever's agony had produced them, the man deserved an easy death. "Let someone else go. Teal, Hern, Sentian. Anyone, but you. You're still too weak and you don't need to see what they may have done to him." "They've done nothing to him!" Brelan sighed. "Papa, if you are going to that place, you had best prepare—" "I didn't hear you include yourself in those names, Brelan," his father said. "Why is that?"

"You know why!" "Can't you put aside your war with Conar long enough to help him?" He stared hard at the set, closed face glaring back at him. "I don't understand you, Brelan, but then again, I never have. But you don't have to worry. I will go to my son." "Papa…" There was pleading in Saur's voice. "It is my place. If they have, indeed, harmed him in any way, they will deal with me!" *** He was trying desperately to swim up out of the fiery depths into which he had fallen. Every movement sent fresh agony ripping through his battered body, and he groaned. From somewhere far away he could hear his name being repeated, but it took too much effort to free his mind from the pitch-black pit in which he lay. He tried to open one eye, but it felt as though there were red-hot needles sticking into it and even that faint movement brought more pain. His name was being called louder, and whoever was violently shaking him had no concern for his suffering. His mind screamed for them to stop, but his jaw felt broken, unhinged, useless, and he could make no sound except for the soft grunt that accompanied every wheezing breath. There was more than one broken rib to make every intake of air pure agony. With superhuman strength, he managed to push back the enveloping darkness surrounding him. Just the act of prying open his swollen eyes brought intense pain to his face and he wondered if his left cheekbone was still intact. He tried to focus and caught the image of an angry face. He could not adjust his hazy vision and the mirage kept jerking, blurring, skipping out of sight. With a heavy groan, he lapsed back into unconsciousness. "You will have to do something about his face," Galen said. "If we present him before the Tribunal in such a condition, there will be problems." Kaileel pushed himself up from the huddled mass at his feet and turned a haughty stare to Galen McGregor. "When I present him at trail, there will hardly be a mark on him." He looked at the face that had been all but destroyed by Tymothy Kullen's fists. "Until then, he will suffer." *** He was dreaming. There was a bright green meadow full of red-topped clover and swaying daisies on long graceful stalks. Yellow and red fields of carpet spread out as far as he could see over gentle hills and soft hollows. A cool mountain stream trickled past stately willows and majestic oaks, their delicate gray beards of moss dragging the ground. Overhead, in a tall sycamore, a sky-blue bird threw back its dainty head and sang a love song to the day. Fleecy white wisps of cloud dotted the horizon and the sun hovered warm and sweet in the spring heavens. The ripe smell of earth and riverbed, clover and jasmine and honeysuckle filled the air, and a fresh, light breeze ruffled his hair as he walked beside the slim woman. Her long black hair waved in the wind, billowed out behind her like gossamer tendrils of fine spun silk. Her bright yellow gown swirled about her graceful legs and blew over his buff-covered breeches. Liza's smile was radiant, as radiant as the day, and her step was light and sure. Taking his hand, she raced him to the top of a slight rise and together they looked at the breath-taking beauty of the ocean as it lay from mountain to keep. Behind them was a long stretch of peaceful green earth, trickling silver water and fields of wild flowers. Above, the sun showered down peace and tranquillity, harmony and love. "Papa! Mama!" They both turned, smiling. With the bright wash of day behind her, her flaxen hair streaming, the little girl came skipping toward them from out of the cool shadows of the nearby forest. Her little gown was an exact replica of her mother's, and her hair was held back with soft amber ribbons that blew out from like dancing butterflies flitting about the meadow. She called to them again and raised her arms, holding them out to her father.

Going down on one knee, he opened his arms as she ran into them. He felt his wife's loving hand on his shoulder and slowly turned his head to look up at Liza. Her face was filled with love and peace; her mouth was touched with the most gentle and sweetest smile he had ever seen. He kissed the top of his little girl's head, hugging her to him as she settled in his arms. He inhaled the clean scent of her bright blond hair and sighed with the happiness he was feeling deep in his heart. He felt her move against him and pulled back from her. The little head lifted; the small round face looked up at him; the pretty little mouth smiled. And the smile on his own handsome face died a horrible death. It was not the dear, sweet innocent face of his lost daughter that gazed back at him. It was the distorted death mask of his murdered baby girl. The face of his child dissolved before his eyes; the skin sloughed from her skull, peeled away from the arms that were clasped around his neck. He watched as the pretty green eyes caved in, as gristle and marrow vanished. He felt the body crumbling to dust in his arms and the overpowering stench of grave-rot and putrefaction filled the air. He gazed with horror at the yellow dress and threw it away from him with a shriek of disgust. The entire creation was covered with maggots. He watched the wind catch the decaying dust of his child, swirl it around him and carry it away on the sudden blast of frigid air now surrounding him. The smell of brimstone overpowered him and he turned to his wife. But she, too, was gone. In her place stood a monster with long, taloned nails tipped in vermilion. A malevolent sneer of satisfaction was carved into the skull-like face. The thin lips lifted; the pale blue eyes, burning with hate and vengeance, bore into his soul like the thrust of a branding iron. "All gone, my Prince," the monster hissed. "All gone." His mindless screaming filled the cell in which he lay.

Chapter 15 Brelan watched his father close the hidden door. All light faded from beneath the threshold as the King moved deeper into the tunnel leading from the stables to the punishment cells. He leaned his forehead against the cold stone walls of the old passageway and closed his eyes. He wasn't sure he had done the right thing in allowing his father to go to Conar. Brelan knew what the man would find. A tremor ran down his spine and he pushed away from the wall. "There's nothing you'll be able to do, Papa. Nothing at all." He thrust his hands into his pockets, stared at the hidden doorway, and called himself the coward Legion had named him. Part of him wanted to flee, to get as far from Boreas Keep as he could; another part wanted to be with his father, to lend the support he had earlier refused. He was torn by needs he didn't understand, bombarded with emotions he couldn't believe he was feeling. What did it matter if Conar had been tortured? His body broken and scarred? So what if the man's screams had become hoarse and weak over the last two days? How did it concern him? "He's your brother," came the answer, wafting down the chill corridors to seep into his heart and freeze his soul. "He's your flesh and blood."

Brelan shook his head. "Only by a quirk of fate. Only because of one man's lust." "Not so," the wind whispered. "By the grace of the gods are you kin." He brought his hands from his pockets and jammed them against his ears to shut out the sound of her lovely voice. "Go away, Raphaella!" "Your conscience pricks you, Lord Saur," came the gentle rebuke. "I but remind you that you have one." He turned from side to side, searching for the way out. There was none. He was trapped in his own private hell, and that hell was Conar McGregor's suffering. *** He could smell his own filth. He tried to concentrate on filling his lungs as seldom as possible, for his ribcage ached, shooting fiery stabs of pure agony through his sides and back. His head throbbed with a blinding pain above his right eye and he knew he had a concussion. Not that he could see any reason why that should matter. He was a dead man, anyway. He'd never live to see his trail. He still hadn't signed Tohre's confession and he had no intention of doing so. They would have to kill him and he knew they were very close to doing so. Kill him and then make it look as though he had committed suicide. Idly, he wondered how they would explain away his shattered face and broken body. They could drop you down a shaft, he thought. A squeak, something like a laugh, came from the bloody lips and he winced. He'd already been dropped down a shaft. Or so it felt. Something scuttled over his bare feet. He flinched. Sharp nails dug into his flesh as the furry creature ran over him. The smell had no doubt attracted the rodent from its hole. It wouldn't be long before the creature decided to take a nip out of him, to see how he tasted. He had two such injuries already on his ankles. He tried to sit up straighter, but he gasped in pain and stopped, his fingertips crying out with agony as the straw pressed into the ravaged tips where nails had once grown. It was better to leave the rat alone, he thought with a grimace. He bowed his head. The dirty blond hair was matted with filth, caked with blood. It had the worse smell of all clinging to it and every breath brought him a whiff of such nauseating strength he had to swallow down his gorge. He tried to think, but his mind labored on the worst torture they had administered and he was soul-sick, if not body-hurt, by it. "Sweet, holy Alel," he whimpered and the memory came prodding back to him like the thrust of a branding iron. His left arm stung just above the elbow as though a million bees had decided to feast on his lacerated flesh. Knowing why he hurt there brought another moan to his lips. Nothing had hurt him as much as that last bit of viciousness. They had tortured him with every conceivable instrument, and still he had kept as quiet as he could. An occasional moan had escaped him up until then; a pitiful whimper had issued from his tightly compressed lips; but he had not screamed. Not until the last pain had been administered. "I will teach you, Conar," Kaileel had shouted as that final, devastating torture was being prepared. "I will show you who you truly belong to!" It had been close to midnight when Kaileel had him dragged from his cell and brought once more to the interrogation chamber. Kaileel had waited until the two guards shoved Conar into a chair before a writing desk and had tied his left arm to the chair, leaving his right arm free. Placing the document in front of Conar, Kaileel extended a quill to one of the guards. The guard picked up Conar's right arm and slammed his hand on the desk while the other placed the quill in Conar's clenched fist and held his hand around Conar's so the quill could not be dropped.

"Sign, Conar," Kaileel ordered. Conar glanced at the blur of parchment, but could not make out the writing. All sight was gone from one eye, partially blocked from the other. "I said sign it, Conar. I am tired of playing games!" With what was left of his draining strength, Conar deliberately brought his thumb up and over the quill and crushed it. A guard grabbed a handful of his hair, dragging back his head. His moan seemed to please his tormentor. The other guard pulled Conar's right arm behind his back and jammed it as high as he could. He didn't moan that time; he let out a cry of pain. Kaileel clapped his hands. The Chief Inquisitor came forward, holding a pair of tin snips. "You aren't ready to sign?" Kaileel taunted. "That's perfectly all right. You will." Conar could barely see the Chief Inquisitor. He caught only a dull gleam of metal and had a brief vision of sharp edges. He had no conception of what Kaileel was about to do until a guard anchored his bound arm close to the chair arm. "I will teach you, Conar! I will show you who you really belong to!" Not until the realization of what was about to happen came to him did he scream. Not until they grasped his arm to cut away the marriage band. He screamed mindlessly, howling his pain even before the snips had touched him. Not even the godawful pain of the needles hurt as badly as the removal of his last link to the woman he loved. "Now, my Beloved," Kaileel sneered. "Now, you will wear my symbol of Joining!" He wasn't prepared for the agony that shot through his entire body as something was wrapped around his upper arm where his marriage band had rested for more than three years. Something so hot he heard his skin sizzle, smelled his flesh burning, circled his arm in a grip like molten lava. He screamed so hard he felt something tear in his throat. He jerked his head from the grip on his hair, felt his scalp rip, but was able to see a glowing iron clamp being removed from his arm. In that split second of consciousness he recognized the curved instrument as being the same one the smithy used when forging iron shot. It had clasped entirely around his arm and, once removed, had left a three-inch band of burned flesh that would scar him forever. As Conar slipped into darkness, he heard Kaileel's sneer. "My Joining band, Conar!" Kaileel laughed. He pointed to the burned flesh. "With my initials carved into your flesh!" Aye, that was a torture that hurt him far worse than anything else they had done, or could do, to him. A sound beyond the dark recesses of his cell brought him fully aware, tore his mind from his pain. He couldn't see, couldn't even hear all that well anymore, couldn't even move his head, but he knew someone was furtively making their way to him. He heard stone scraping against stone, felt a sudden blast of frigid, sweet air blowing over him. He heard his name, and he stopped breathing. "Conar?" Hearing his father's voice brought tears to Conar's eyes. He thanked whatever god still cared for him that his father had not died of his wounds. As quickly as his happiness came, it died, for he did not want his father to see him as he was. He sat huddled with cold and hunger and thirst. His bare chest was slick from the wet of the stone wall, his vomit, blood and drool. He stank of his bodily fluids, reeked of filth from the cell. His rump was soaked with urine and he was, he knew, beyond recognizing anymore. He thought if he were very, very still, very, very quiet, he would not be found. "Conar?" the King called. But he hadn't counted on the rat taking that precise moment to venture a nibble on his bare foot. He yelped with surprise and despair and knew his father heard him. ***

"Conar?" Gerren asked, hearing the muffled whimper, the scrape of metal striking the stone floor and the clink of iron. He hurried to the place from where the sound had come, found an iron door, tried to push open the heavily barred grating and found it locked. "Conar? Is that you?" Another muffled groan came from within the dark cell. The King had already found the other six men alive. Barely. This had to be Conar's cell. He held up the lantern, tried to see through the grating, but the criss-crossed pattern was too close. All he could see was a darker mass against the blackness. He held the lantern higher, spied the loop of keys on the wall beside the door and began fitting the long spikes into the locks to find the right one. "Papa, no." Gerren yanked on the door as a key turned the lock. "I'm here, son." "Don't come in." Conar knew he had to make a supreme sacrifice to enunciate each word in order to be understood. "Don't be ridiculous," Gerren snapped. He hurried inside. "I'm not afraid of this place." A dim, yellow-white glow from his lantern washed the cell. At first all he saw were the chains, latched onto dirty ankles and limp wrists that lay beside legs stretched out in filthy tatters of corduroy. His gaze traveled up the torn, splattered breeches to his son's bare chest. Gerren sucked in his breath. Deep red blotches ran rampant over Conar's shoulders and chest. Dried, caked blood, black in the light, smeared the bruised flesh. The bent head with its lank, oily hair was lowered, turned into the shadows along the wall so that the face could not be seen. "Son?" There was a slight shake, a weak negation, of the bent head. "Go away, Papa." There were tears and shame in the voice. "I don't want you to see me like this." Pain filled Gerren's heart. He hunkered down, reached out a shaking hand to cup his son's chin, but Conar flinched, burying his face deeper against the stone wall. "Please, Papa…" Gerren swallowed, but gently turned the battered, destroyed face toward him. Neither Conar nor his father allowed any emotion to show on their rigid features; not Conar's shame at having his father be a witness to the brutality he had suffered, nor Gerren's guilt at having been the cause of it. Gerren's lips quivered, but Conar couldn't see the grief and shock that followed. "They had no right to do this," Gerren whispered. His entire body trembled with fury. How dare they do this to his child? Conar eased his throbbing face away from his father's light touch. Gerren pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the bloody drool coming from his son's torn mouth, the drip of moisture from his battered nose. "They had no right, Conar," he repeated. "You are royalty." Conar tried to focus what little vision he had left on his father's face. "Not anymore," he wheezed through broken teeth and cracked lips. His father flinched, the truth cutting him to the quick. He was responsible for what they had done. Tears formed and he made a gasping, choking sound as his shoulders began to shake. Conar wanted to bring his manacled hands up to his face, but couldn't. Shame overpowered him. He desperately wanted to drop through the cell into the burning pits of hell and be consumed. He wanted to flee from the intensity of

his father's pain, for he could feel it to his soul and knew he was the cause of it. "Don't, Papa. Not your fault." He heard his father's pitiful, wrenching denial and wanted to take the man's mind from it. "Liza?" Gerren heard the pleading in Conar's voice and knew his pain was causing Conar hurt. He forced his voice steady and lifted his chin, although tears fell heedlessly down his weathered cheeks. "She's well. They won't let her see you." "Good," was the brief, heart-felt reply. Conar pictured his wife. His heart wanted to break. He ached to have her comfort him, ease his pain, hold him in her arms one more time, but knew it would not happen, that he might never see her again. "It was Brelan who told me about the secret tunnel." The King looked around, wondering what Conar had felt seeing this as a child. No wonder the boy was immune to normal emotions. Seeing such filth and human despair had to be telling on a young boy. "We will be there for you." Conar didn't want his family at his trial, but he knew he couldn't stop them. He nodded. "I will testify on your behalf." He nodded again. It wouldn't make any difference. Gerren put his hand on Conar's limp fingers. "They will no doubt exile you." "I know." "But Liza will go with you." He squeezed Conar's hand for comfort, unaware the action brought agony. Conar knew better, but he whispered, "I would like that, Papa." "It won't be long now. This will be be over and you and Liza can be together like before." Never again, Conar thought with utter agony. Never again. Tears blinded Gerren, scalding his cheeks. His son's face was blurring, the distortions running together, blending. For a second he had seen the handsome face it had once been before being beaten so savagely and expertly into the twisted lump of flesh. The King hung his head and sobs through tore his body. "Don't cry, Papa." Conar's voice was slurred, thick. "Not for me." "Then, for who, if not you?" Gerren sank to his knees, gathered the boy in his arms, and held him. "I have done this to you! Me! Me and me, alone!" Conar was so very, very cold. He heard his teeth chattering. He couldn't stop the tremor that shot through him and felt his father's arms tighten before giving way. "I'll give you my coat," Gerren said, feeling the cold seeping through the walls, the damp on Conar's chilled flesh. Conar shook his head. "Would know where I got it…" "What do I care? You're my son! I will not see you freeze to death!" Conar could think of worse ways to die. The voice that answered his father was strained; ashamed to admit it was afraid of more pain. "Would hurt me, Papa. Make me pay for it." Gerren seethed. The Tribunal had absolute authority under the law, and he, himself, was sworn to uphold their edicts. But this time the bastards had gone too far. They had tortured his son! And now to make him sit here in the freezing cold… In the distance, the two men heard the rattle of key to lock and flinched. "Go, now, Papa," he begged. "Leave me before they find you."

"Conar, no—" "Papa, please." Conar gathered up what waning strength he had left. He couldn't tell his father they were coming for him again to bring him more pain and degradation. He wanted his father far away from this place when the screaming began. "Please, for my sake, go." Gerren placed a soft kiss on his son's limp, oily hair. "I am so sorry I have done this to you." "Go," came the weak, tear-filled reply. King Gerren came to his feet. "I love you, Conar. We all love you." Conar wasn't sure he knew what that meant anymore. Gerren took one last look at his son before closing and locking the cell door behind him. As he pulled shut the secret door leading away from the punishment cells, he saw in his mind's eye Conar's face turned up to him. Only a shimmer of blue could be seen through the swollen, puffy lids; the tears had been easily seen. The tears, and the lost, hopeless pain.

Chapter 16 Kaileel Tohre lay with his head in Robbie MacCorkingdale's lap. The younger man gently smoothed the white-blond shock of thick hair from the High Priest's forehead and stroked the smooth-shaven jaw. "And did he sign the confession last eve, Master?" "Eventually," Kaileel said sleepily. "He had to be reminded of his mortality, but he did sign." "But will it hold up in court?" a third man asked from the window. "Oh, yes. His family can protest that the confession was extracted under torture, but they can't prove it. I administered the healing potion after he was made to sign." Reaching up a hand, Kaileel pulled Robbie's mouth down to his own and kissed the thick lips. "Tell me about it," came a disgusted hiss from the window. "Um?" "About how you made him sign, Kaileel." A self-satisfied smile lit Tohre's thin face. He looked at the window where Galen McGregor stood. "I told you, you could have come with me." He smiled. "I didn't know you were so queasy." "I'm not," came the waspish reply. "Ah, but you still have some feeling for your twin." Tohre chuckled. "I understand." "Just tell me how you got him to sign!" Galen snarled. "I had him brought back to the interrogation chamber and then I again put the document before him. He didn't want to sign, wouldn't hold the quill despite my guard's best efforts, but eventually he was made to see the light." "How?" Kaileel shrugged. "Well, it was like this…"

*** Conar was forced into the same chair he had been put in every day for weeks, refusing to sit of his own accord, just as he had every other time. Kaileel put his lips close to Conar's ear and spoke in a clear voice that the nearly deaf man could hear. "Listen carefully, Conar. I am going to say this only once. This confession will be signed tonight, and no later, because if it isn't, I will be forced to bring charges against the others in this conspiracy with you. I don't think you'd like for me to do that since the first person I would have arrested would be your precious bitch-wife." Conar flinched, but he didn't speak. "Do you think she could stand such pain as you have endured, my Prince?" Kaileel whispered. "Can you imagine how her lovely face will look after Kullen finishes with it?" A single tear formed in Conar's right eye and slid down his battered cheek. Kaileel continued to torment the helpless man, gauging the hurt that settled on the ravaged face. "Consider what the stability of her sanity would be if I let my men use her. I will, you know. I can do that. The Tribunal has given me the authority. I can have her brought here and make you watch while my men question her about her part in this affair." "No," Conar snarled through split lips. "Think about it, Conar. Her tender, soft, flesh being battered, cut. Her body being used like the common whore she is!" "No." "Have you ever used her as I used you when you were a little boy? Do you remember what it feels like? Do you think she would find pleasure in—" "I will sign," Conar said weakly. Kaileel grinned. From the slump of the prince's shoulders and the trembling of his lips, he knew the fight had been knocked out of Conar McGregor. "I didn't hear you, Beloved." "I will sign, Kaileel." Tears coursed down Conar's sunken cheeks as the quill was placed in his hand. Kaileel bent over the writing desk, the better to see. He placed his fingers over Conar's, helped him guide the quill. Slowly, Conar scribbled his name on the document. When he finished, he laid down the quill and hung his head. "You didn't even read what you were signing." Conar's voice was barely a whisper. "I couldn't see the damned thing. You saw to that." "It doesn't matter, Sweeting. By tomorrow morn, by the time you are brought before the Tribunal for trial, you will be able to see and hear everything that goes on." A gentle hand reached out to stroke Conar's hair. "I will again be able to see that handsome face." "So I'll look good in my coffin." Kaileel shook his head in admonishment. "You will be sent away, yes; but you aren't to die. Living is part of your punishment. Living without your precious wife since your marriage can now be annulled." Conar's head came up. He stared blankly toward Kaileel's voice. "What?" "Since you signed this confession, admitted your adultery, the Tribunal will have no choice but to annul your marriage." "Adultery?" "You know the Tribunal frowns on royalty committing adultery. Your marriage contract expressly forbids it. We've known all along about your tawdry little affair with the servant wench. We've simply waited until the most opportune

moment to use it against you. You may not be guilty of the other charges, but of this, you know you are! Do not concern yourself with the servant, she will not be punished since you used your authority to make her come to your bed." "Kaileel, please…" "And because the Tribunal can annul your marriage, making the annulment retroactive to the time before you were disinherited, they can now contract with another heir to the throne for the Princess Anya Elizabeth's hand in marriage." "No." It was a whimper of hopelessness. "Your father has already named his heir. Galen has been reinstated through my manipulation. Your precious wife will soon be his to do with as he pleases!" "Kaileel, don't do this, please!" "As soon as your trial is over, as long as you are a good boy and cause us no trouble, I will see that no charges are brought against that bitch. Make one false move, utter one word we do not wish to hear, and I swear she will be lashed to death once Kullen and his men are through with her!" Conar struggled wildly to get free, shouting his hatred. "When your punishment is carried out, you will be exiled to some distant place from which you can not return, and your wife will be wed to the next in line to the Serenian throne. The Tribunal, and I, will see to it!" *** Galen looked away from Kaileel's beaming face. Somewhere deep in his soul he wondered if his love for Liza was worth all the pain in which he had been a party. All the pain he had suffered at the Abbey in Conar's place. He had scars on his back to remind him that he had been initiated in Conar's stead. But he had not been consecrated to the Domination's evil; It had rejected him. He had been found unworthy even of that. "Don't worry," Kaileel told Galen. "The woman is within reach. We will give her to you." Aye, Galen thought, and all the pain he had suffered would be worth it. Worth every damn vile touch he had been forced to endure to win her. *** He waited quietly, hands in his lap. He wore freshly pressed and neatly creased breeches, a clean white shirt. His boots were polished. The door opened; a guard came in carrying a writing desk. After setting it in front of him, the guard turned sharply on his heel and exited. The door closed. He glanced idly at the top of the desk. It was a beautiful piece of parquetry inlaid with black oak, cherry, and pine woods. The pattern across the top was an intricate maze of sharp angles intersecting all the way to the rolled edges of three of the sides. He admired the workmanship, the table's beauty, and then returned his gaze to the farthest corner of the room. He sat for over an hour before the door opened again and someone entered. He didn't move; didn't turn. He didn't need to. He knew who had entered. From the corner of his vision, a parchment was laid upon the writing desk; a quill was held out to him. He glanced at the parchment and then at the man who had placed it before him. "Read it." He sighed. What difference did it make if he read it or not? He would sign it anyway. He reached for the quill, but it was held away from him. "I must insist you read it before I allow you to sign it." He lifted the top portion of the page away from the desk and scanned the writing. He closed his eyes when he was

through, let out a tired, weary sigh, opened his eyes again. He patiently held out his hand for the quill. "You have read it?" He nodded. "And understand?" Again the silent nod. The quill was laid in his hand. He carefully scrawled his name along the bottom, then put his hands in his lap and lowered his head. The door opened, the guard removed the desk, and left, quietly closing the door behind him. "The trial will convene in less than an hour. Is there anything you wish to say to me?" He raised his head, focused on the man's face. What was there left to say? His visitor bent over him, took his chin in a tender grip. "You will be tried in open court." He spoke for the first time in two days. "And found guilty." "Then punished." A fleeting smile touched his dry lips. "I know you will enjoy watching that, Kaileel." Kaileel Tohre blinked. His fingers moved up the Prince's cheek and caressed him. "I loved you," the High Priest swore. "I love you more than you will ever know, and you spurned me. Spat on me. But even so, I will give you one more chance. Just one. All you need do is say the word. If you were but to accept me, to accept what I can offer you…" Conar slowly shook his head, reached up to take the man's hand from his face. He held the hand in his own as gently as though it were Liza's. "I would rather die." "You just might." His voice was more dead than alive as he answered. "Leave me alone, Kaileel. For once, just leave me alone." He squeezed Tohre's fingers, then released him. "Where you are going, you will surely be alone!" the High Priest promised before slamming out of the room. *** The King was amazed at the difference in his son's appearance as Conar was led into the Tribunal Hall of Justice. There wasn't a mark on his face. Thankful he had said nothing to the woman sitting so rigidly beside him, he silently seethed. This was, no doubt, Tohre's doing. The bastard hadn't wanted the Tribunal, nor the young man's family, to see how horribly he had been treated. Without the physical evidence of torture, Conar's battered face, no one could claim duress. The King had been shown his son's confession. Even knowing the evil thing was all a lie, Gerren could not protest its authenticity until Conar, himself, had made an appearance in court. He should have known the Domination would never have brought Conar to these chambers the way he looked two days earlier. With brutally abused body on exhibit for all to see, the King could have called for an investigation. Now, unless Conar told the truth, the charges would make no difference. And even if he tell all, would anyone believe him since no marks attested to the fact that Conar had been horribly, savagely beaten? Legion closely watched his brother. Conar entered the room with shoulders slumped. Whatever had happened in the Interrogation Facility had considerably shaken the young man. He had yet to look up to see if his wife were in attendance. He stared at the floor, his hands at his side, submissive and obedient. Brelan's eyes narrowed. There were no livid bruises to indicate Conar had been tortured, no shambling walk that

would have meant leg irons. He had been freshly shaven and barbered, his skin glowing with a recent bath; his hair was still damp, hanging in curling tendrils around the nape of his neck. It looked for all the world as if he had been well-treated, but was overcome with guilt. Brelan knew better. Hern knew better, too. Something had caused this lassitude, this spiritlessness. Conar seemed detached from what was going on, oblivious to those who sat in the benches. He wondered if the boy had been drugged. Liza wondered, too. She stared at her husband, willing him to look at her, at anyone; but he kept his face averted, his head down. She looked to his father. "He looks well enough," Gerren told her, sensing her unease. Brelan heard his father, but the words did not match the emotion in the man's voice. Their father had been to see Conar two nights ago and no doubt saw the results of two weeks worth of interrogation. What they were now seeing was the result of some potent healing charm. Brelan expected such a ploy and came prepared. But he had not expected Conar's quiet acquiescence. He watched Conar tremble as Liza's voice broke through a moment of silence. Legion understood. The confession had been extracted, no doubt, under penalty of Liza being harmed, even arrested in the so-called conspiracy against the King. If that were the case, it made sense that Conar would not seek to clear his name. A'Lex leaned over to speak in low tones with Brelan, who sat with a carefully controlled face, his chin resting on the apex of his fingers. Brelan nodded as Legion spoke. He knew his eldest brother was right. Liza had been threatened. "Will they let him give defense of himself?" Teal du Mer asked, leaning forward to whisper. "Why wouldn't they?" Legion asked. "They didn't allow Roget to," Teal answered. "They read the charges, asked him if they were true, then passed sentence. All Roget said the entire time was, "Aye." Hern turned. "They've got to let him speak in his own behalf. They have the confessions of the other six men implicating him in the plot. Even with that damned forged confession, they still have to give him time to tell the Tribunal why he did it." Hern's knowledge of Serenian law was almost as good as Teal's. "In Oceania, a man is innocent until proven guilty," Chand Wynth said bitterly from his place beside his brother Grice, who sat behind Brelan. "Here, he is guilty until proven innocent!" "Be quiet, Chandling!" Grice snapped. "We are here to observe, not to interfere!" A loud bang came from near the rear of the courtroom. Grice turned to see a portly man pounding on the floor with a six-foot-long quarterstaff. "Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! This Tribunal Court of Justice is declared open!" the bailiff called. "Stand in honor of the Tribunal's arrival!" Those seated in the visitors' benches came to their feet as the three Tribunal judges filed into the courtroom. Their long, official rust-colored robes rustled as they took their seats on the High Bench. The bailiff struck his quarterstaff on the floor and the visitors resumed their seats. "This court is in session!" the bailiff cried. The man sitting in the center of the High Bench picked up a list of charges and began to read them to those assembled. His voice was toneless, devoid of inflection, bored. The men who flanked him kept their keen eyes on the prisoner, seemingly unaware of what was happening around him. The other two men on the High Bench looked past their Chief Justice and frowned at one another. They had expected more of a show. As the charges were read, Brelan continued to study Conar. Conar's head was still bent, his gaze on the floor. He had not looked up once. The two guards beside him were close enough to grab him if he tried to run, and he seemed much aware of their presence. Their stern faces were turned away from him, but they seemed to be nervously surveying the hall in case supporters of their prisoner dared to try to intervene.

What are you thinking, Conar? Brelan wondered, what are you feeling? Conar heard himself being condemned in front of the people he loved and cared for, knowing he could not, dared not, protest his innocence. The men standing at his side had been ordered to kill him if he said one word Kaileel Tohre did not want to hear. He knew they would make it look as though he had tried to run, and the last thing he wanted was for Liza to see him cut down. As for dying, he didn't care. Something told him death would be preferable to whatever Tohre had planned. "Those are the charges as read," the Chief Tribunal Justice told those assembled as he laid down the parchment. "We are ready to hear the prisoner." "Conar, son of King Gerren," the bailiff shouted. "You are called to testify!" King Gerren lowered his head. Not Prince Conar. Not even Conar McGregor. Because of him, his son's identity had been removed, along with his surname. He would not even be allowed to take his mother's maiden name, as would an illegitimate son, since her family had been royalty, and Conar was now a commoner according to Serenian law. Escorted from the prisoner's box to stand before the three-member panel, Conar was asked if it was his signature on the document before the court. "Aye," he said softly. "Was this confession signed of your own free will? Without duress?" He wanted to shout the truth, to tell his family how much had been done to him to extract that confession, but he knew he didn't dare. "Aye." His voice was almost a whisper, but every person heard it. "Do you corroborate the charges against you, Conar?" He looked at Coure, the Chief Justice, and opened his mouth to speak. A low warning grunt from the guard on his left, Tymothy Kullen, made him close his lips. "You are not deaf, young man!" one of the Justices bellowed. "Answer these charges!" "Or are there others in league with you whom you are protecting?" Coure sneered. Conar flinched. It was a warning he knew he had better heed. For the first time, Conar turned looked at his family. He caught Liza's movement as she half-rose from her seat, saw Legion put out a hand to stop her, and turned away, squeezing his eyes shut to his pain. "Are these charges against you, true?" "Aye, they are true." A gasp went through those assembled. Conar heard Liza's cry of denial. He waited for the worse part to come. Intuitively he knew Coure was saving the best for last. "And what of the additional charge brought against you by the High Priest Kaileel Tohre?" "What charge?" the King shouted as he came to his feet. "There was no other charge that I saw in the confession you say he signed!" Coure frowned at the King. "He just admitted to signing the confession, Majesty. You were not coerced into signing, were you, Conar?" He wanted to be done with this before his resolve weakened. Conar flung himself at the two men who had edged closer to him, their hands hovering over their weapons. "Tell them the truth, son!" the King shouted. Liza looked at her father-in-law and knew the man was privy to information he had not given her. She tried to probe his mind, found her thoughts blocked and turned her startled eyes to Conar. He violently shook his head, not wanting her

to know. "See, Majesty? He has denied any coercion." "What other charge is there?" Legion asked, also coming to his feet. He could feel a charged atmosphere in the room, something coming that he knew damned well he wasn't going to like. "In deference to His Majesty and Her Grace, the part of his confession pertaining to the additional charges were removed from the document before me. However," Coure paused as he shuffled through the papers, and held one out for the court to see. "This was considered to be a rather indelicate admission of still another crime." There was a stiff smile. "He would not want it read to you, Majesty." "What crime are you talking about?" Gerren snarled. Liza stood and faced the Tribunal. "If there is an additional charge, I will hear it!" "We did not want to embarrass you, Your Grace. Reading this will surely hurt you," Tolkan said in a soothing voice. "You place my husband under arrest, without the benefit of his family being able to see him for weeks on end, and you say you don't want tohurt me? I find your logic unconscionable, sir!" "Nevertheless, Your Grace," Tolkan continued smoothly, "we did so in your best interests. It is enough if he admits the charge. You do not need to be privy to it." "And if he denies them?" Legion snapped. "How can he, Lord A'Lex?" one of the Justice's inquired. "He has already signed to the charge. However, if he should perjure himself now, he will face additional punishment." "As we have said, it is in Her Grace's best interests—" "It would best serve Her Grace's interest if you would be done with this farce of a so-called trial!" Gerren shouted. "Read this new charge!" "If you insist, Majesty." Coure smiled. His faded eyes went to Conar. "Shall I read the charge to your family and friends?" Conar knew he couldn't have stopped the old man if he had said no. He remained silent. Kaileel's face was flushed with excitement as he watched the proceedings from the corner of the room. No one had noticed him, not even Conar. He was eagerly awaiting the words that would surely drive a wedge so deeply between his family and friends, the man would forever be cast apart from them all. "How do you plead to the charge of adultery?" "Adultery?" Gerren gasped. "Of having used your rank and position in the realm to seduce High Priest Tohre, among other men in the Temple, to have sex with you, even after your Joining?" Beaming with triumph, Kaileel watched Conar's face lose its color. Even the stoic Brelan Saur had come to his feet. Angry voices buzzed about the room; the Tribunalists banged on the table; the bailiff shouted for order. The King stood open-mouthed, his face a deep suffusion of red. Liza struggled in A'Lex's arms. The new Commander of the Serenian Forces, himself, his eyes wide with shock as he stared at his brother, held the woman as though in doing so he could save her the pain and humiliation of what was happening. The woman's brothers sat frozen, their faces an ugly grimace of distaste. Teal du Mer buried his face in his hands; Hern Arbra slumped in his seat, his face stunned. None of then expected this, least of all Conar. Tohre turned his gaze at Conar and, as the young man's eyes finally met his, he saw the final realization of defeat in those remarkable blue depths. "That's a lie!" Liza screamed. "Conar, tell them it's a lie!"

Legion held her against him to keep her from running to her husband. Whatever his brother had signed, Legion knew it wasn't what had just been spoken of. "Tell them it's a lie, son!" Hern called. "He can not deny what he has already admitted!" Coure yelled. Angry voices shouted over the call for quiet. King Gerren argued with the bailiff, who refused to allow him access to Conar. Brelan stood transfixed on the misery on Conar's face. "What have they done to you?" "Tell them, Conar!" Legion shouted. "Tell them it isn't true." "Tell them, Conar!" Liza pleaded. She knew what such an admission would do to him. "Tell them it's a lie!" Conar stood perfectly still, pain registering on his face as he watched Liza and his father trying to get to him. The guards held him tightly lest he try to run. He couldn't have run if he tried. He was numb. Never, never had he dreamed Tohre would turn his guilt at having committed adultery with Gezelle to this! "Do you perjure yourself and deny the charges?" Coure shouted. "If you do, you will be severely dealt with." He almost laughed. How many degrees of severity were there that he hadn't already endured? He shook his head. None as painful as what he was about to, he knew. "Conar, please!" Liza screamed. "Don't let them do this! It isn't true. Don't let them win!" Her pleading melted his soul. He scanned her lovely face, ravaged by grief. She knew the truth of what he had been forced to do long, long ago. His father and brothers, his friends, no doubt, suspected the worst, not knowing for sure if he had done such horrible things, for hadn't he joined the Domination? Was that not what those men did to one another? "Conar?" his father questioned. Having to admit to something he had not done was killing him. He knew if he dared deny the charges, he'd be taken back to his cell, and within a matter of hours, Liza would be there with him. He shook his head. He could not let that happen. He glanced at Brelan's expressionless face, drew courage from the calm acceptance of his guilt he thought he saw written there, and raised his head. "It's true," he said in a voice that cut through the angry talk, sliced through the wounded gasps of shock and outrage, plunged deep into the hearts of everyone who had ever loved him, murdered what small affection might still be left. Complete silence followed. His father dropped into his chair, his face in his hands. Legion pulled Liza against him. Teal stared at the floor; Hern cried; Grice and Chand Wynth looked at one another; Brelan folded his arms across his chest and watched his brother with a look of disgust. "All of it is true," he said. "I am guilty." "Conar, no," Brelan sighed, his hands falling to his sides. "You are guilty!" Tolkan pronounced with glee. "Sentence must be passed." "He's to be exiled. We know that! Get this over with!" the King said miserably. "He will be exiled, aye," Tolkan agreed. "But he has flaunted the laws of this land before this Tribunal and must be made to atone for his crimes. He will not hang alongside his co-conspirators because he was born royal, but he is guilty of sedition and of the commission of adultery." "So you'll take the whip to him, won't you, Coure?" Legion shouted.

"Aye, that is the prescribed punishment," the old man said. Legion tightly held Liza, feeling her body tremble. Brelan locked his gaze on Conar and then sat on the edge of his seat, holding his breath. "Are you making his punishment for the adultery retroactive from the time before his Joining?" Du Mer called even though he had no right to be heard or answered here. "We are!" Tolkan acknowledged. "You are annulling his marriage?" the King gasped. "We already have." "You can't do that!" Liza screamed. Brelan's forehead creased, then full understanding of what the Domination had planned for his brother hit him like a thunderbolt. "Oh, hell, Coni," he whispered, slumping in his chair. "The gods help you." "Your Grace," Tolkan said patiently, "the Tribunal is the law in Serenia. We only follow the—" "Go to hell!" Liza yelled as loud as she could. She pointed a rigid finger at Kaileel Tohre. "You couldn't make him return your perverted love so you do this to him? Haven't you hurt him enough?" Tolkan stood. "Commander, if you cannot control the Princess, she will be removed." King Gerren knew the penalty for adultery committed by a member of royalty was not less than twenty, not more than thirty lashes. He came slowly to his feet. "How many lashes will you give my boy?" Brelan found Conar looking at him, wondered if the man knew just how severe his punishment would be. From the resigned look on his face, it didn't seem to matter. Conar was dead in his own mind. He seemed calm enough, so if he knew in advance what the Tribunal was planning, it could not be too severe. "He is to be taken to the Punishment Grounds tomorrow at dawn. There he will be forced to watch his fellow conspirators hanged by the neck until dead, then he will be stripped and flogged for his disregard for the laws!" Tolkan stood, rested his hands on the table, and turned his head to stare at Liza. "The standard punishment for royal adultery is thirty lashes. The punishment for sedition committed by a member of royalty is exile." Legion relaxed somewhat. Thirty lashes would be hard, but tolerable. He had expected fifty. He looked at Liza's relieved face, but his head snapped up as Tohre began to speak. "But since this man is now a commoner, was declared so by his sovereign before the attack on his King, he is not subject to the general sentencing." "What does that mean, Legion?" Liza asked, worried as she looked at Legion's white face. "Do you beg for leniency from this court?" Coure asked, his cold, hard stare on Conar's still face. "We can grant it if you ask." "Aye!" Gerren shouted. "Grant him leniency. I beg you! On my knees, if need be! Please!" Conar couldn't answer. He was still looking at Brelan, wondering at the pained expression on the man's normally impassive face. Tolkan Coure smiled. "If that is your wish, Majesty, we can grant it. Instead of what is prescribed by Tribunal Law, he is to be given twenty lashes for each conspirator he drew into his vile plan and another thirty for the commission of the adultery." "What?" Hern shouted. Stunned, Conar couldn't control the shudder that ran through him. He could see the angry faces, the mouths that were drawn back with feral snarls of disbelief. He even saw a hint of compassion on Brelan's stony face staring back at him.

He saw Liza straining against Legion, but could hear nothing save the pounding roar of blood in his ears. He moved as though in slow motion, turning first to look at his father, then to Hern's ravaged face, then to Teal, who gazed with horror-stricken, tear-filled eyes. He watched Chand being held in Grice's arms as the boy cried. Saw Kaileel's smug face stretched in a grin of triumph. His mind cried out in misery though his tongue could not speak. Brelan heard Hern Arbra's words as clearly as though they had been meant for him even though they were being spoken to the King. "If you love him, you won't let them do this to him! You have to stop them!" "That's a death warrant, Papa! One hundred and fifty lashes will be murder!" Legion yelled. "They mean to kill him!" Brelan flinched. Conar felt his arms being pulled as the guards drew him from the hall. He watched an angry crowd surging toward him, but he couldn't hear the things they shouted. Not a sound penetrated his fogged brain. He watched in silent confusion as Legion shoved Liza into Brelan's arms, watched in utter soundlessness as Legion brushed past two, three, four Temple guards in his effort to get to him. His body jerked as Legion thrust aside Tymothy Kullen and the other guard. Conar looked down at the hand Legion managed to grab, saw Legion's mouth opening and closing as he urgently spoke, but he had no idea what the man was saying. Conar forced his tongue to speak, he said words he never heard himself speak, begging words, pleading words, last words. He told his brother not to allow Liza to see what they would do to him, to keep away his children. He saw the understanding register on Legion's face and realized his brother had understood.. He saw Legion nod, and felt Legion's hand pulled from his own, torn from him, and his way once more blocked. Thirty, forty lashes, he had expected. Twice that would have been crippling, but he knew he could have survived. Three times that was lethal, four times that would see him in his grave. One hundred and fifty lashes of a steel-barbed whip would tear him apart, leave nothing behind but a mass of bloody pulp. He looked at his wife. This might be the last time this side of heaven he would ever see her. He took in her beauty, her grace, the gentleness. Tears welled in his eyes and he tried to smile at her as they dragged him into the corridor. She was calling to him, her hands out in pleading, but he couldn't hear her. Shaking his head, he allowed them to pull him through the doorway. He didn't struggle. He couldn't. He watched her face begin to crumble, saw her head arch back as she screamed, knew the sound must have cut Brelan to the quick, for Saur lost all his coloring. With his heart breaking, being torn from his chest, with every bit of his courage and strength and determination, Conar forced sound through his trembling lips, up from the depths of his soul and he saw the courtyard go still. "I love you, Liza!" The door began to close, forever shutting out her beautiful face. "I will always love you!" The door closed.

PART II: Chapter 1

Kaileel Tohre could not remember ever being so angry. He swept his furious gaze from the King to the King's two bastard sons to the bitch who sat beside them to the burly Master-at-Arms who glared back at him with murderous intent. Even the half-gypsy bastard regarded him with contempt and hatred, something the little prick had never before dared to do. Tohre's thin lips quivered; his skull-like face turned a mottled red as his fury mounted. The discolored flesh that hung in folds beneath his chin wobbled as he swung his head to Arch-Prelate Tolkan Coure's amused face. "It is a reasonable request, Tohre," the Arch-Prelate announced. "Have you no ready answer for these people?" To keep from screaming, Tohre clamped his teeth together. Tolkan knew better! He knew better! "Is there some reason why, now, after his trial, we can not see him?" the King asked haughtily. "You have already condemned him," Commander Legion A'Lex added. "You have hissigned confession. What are you afraid of, Tohre?" Kaileel swung his gaze to the King's eldest bastard son and smirked, but he could not, as yet, find the voice that would tell these intruders to go to hell. "Unless you have something to fear from us seeing him," Sir Hern Arbra put in. The massive man, with his wide shoulders and bulging arms crossed over an equally bulging chest, stood with his legs braced wide apart, his head back.He regarded the High Priest as though he were looking at a mound of excrement. "Perhaps the fact that we might glean the truth of what happened to my husband before his trial frightens you, Brother Tohre," the bitch said quietly. "I have no fear, Lady!" Tohre snarled, finding his voice. "Then what reason do you give for not allowing us to see him?" Teal du Mer asked. The gypsy's dark face was set and hard, totally out of character for the trouble-causing little snit. "We cannot have the six of you trekking through the Tribunal Hall, young sir," Tolkan said in a reasonable voice. "But I see no reason why one of you can not go in to speak with him if Tohre voices no objection." "Well, Tohre?" the King demanded. "Perhaps just one of you," Kaileel grated. "But we would choose the one," Tolkan said. The King looked at the man. "If only one of us is allowed in, it should be his wife." "He has no wife!" Tohre snapped, his body quivering with outrage. "He has a wife, Brother Tohre, and shall have one for as long as this woman lives!" Liza said, showing the first real fire since being allowed into the Temple receiving room with the others. Tohre's face turned crimson with rage, but his hard mouth broke into a rare smile. "Even when you are legally wed to another?" The men who had accompanied Liza turned to her, fearing she would erupt, but her calm, serene face bewildered them. Her words made them look to one another with worry. "You may have annulled our marriage, Tohre, but before the eyes of Alel and all the deities of our joint pantheons, Conar is still my husband. You may force me into marriage with another, I can not stop you, but in my heart, I will be Conar's wife until the end of time!" Lord Brelan Saur lowered his head. Liza's words cut into his heart like daggers. "I admire your loyalty, Your Grace," Tolkan cooed soothingly, "but we can not allow a lady into the cells. It would be unseemly."

"Then, who?" the King shouted, at the end of his rope. They had been in this room for well over an hour and nothing had been accomplished except the swapping of insults. "I see no reason why Lord Saur may not go in to see his brother," Tolkan said reasonably. Brelan looked at the Arch-Prelate. Of them all, he was the one Conar would least like to see, and who would least like to see him. "Why me?" Tolkan shrugged. "You are our choice, Lord Saur. If not you, then no one." "Go, Brelan," Liza advised. "You know why they have chosen you." She walked to him and put a soft hand on his cheek. "Take our love to Conar. Let him know we will stand behind him, and that our prayers are with him tomorrow." "Liza, I don't—" "Do as she says, Brelan," Legion warned. "Show these bastards that the men of this family are loyal to one another." Saur looked from Legion to Liza. He would have moved the world for this woman. What was a trip into the Tribunal punishment cells? "How long do I have with him?" Tolkan grinned. "As long as you can stand, Lord Saur." *** "You know I never do anything without a reason, Tohre," Tolkan told the High Priest as they walked back to the Temple's rectory. "Brelan Saur has no love for Conar and what little comfort his visit will give our prisoner will be of such minuscule capacity, it will be negligible. What are you worried about?" Tohre was rigid with fury. "If Conar tells Saur what we did in order to get the confessions—" "Saur can do nothing. Besides, I think Conar's punishment will please Saur." Kaileel wasn't sure. There had been something alien in the usually stoic man's dark eyes as he sat in on the morning meeting. It may not have been loyalty as A'Lex named it, but it was outside the norm for Brelan Saur. After all, blood was thicker than water. "But not stronger than lust, Tohre," Tolkan reminded the High Priest, easily reading his thoughts. "And Brelan Saur lusts after his brother's woman." "A woman he will not get!" Kaileel swore. *** The passageway leading to the punishment cells was dark and damp. A stench, undefinable but prevalent, seemed to ooze from the moist walls. The air was chilled, depressing, and the steady drip of water from some unseen source played on the nerves. Passing door upon door where a faint groan of pain and despair could be heard, any visitor would feel the hair stirring along his arms and neck. It was not a trip men willingly made. Brelan felt as though a heavy weight had settled on his chest. He could barely breathe in this gloomy atmosphere. The guard walking ahead of him, torch held high, was uncommunicative, surly. He made it plain to Brelan that he thought such a visit to one of the prisoners was a waste of time. "No comfort should be given these men," the red-haired guard had snorted when told he was to take Brelan Saur to see Conar. "But that isn't your decision to make, is it?" Saur snarled, shoving the man out of his way. Tymothy Kullen kept his remarks to himself. Instead, he had grabbed a torch, yanked open the iron-plated door, and gone inside the passageway, not caring if Saur followed or not. Now, Kullen came to a stop. "He's in there!" He pointed a bony finger at one door.

"Then open it," Saur told him. With his face burning in dislike, the guard fumbled on the wall for a key, thrust it in the lock, jerked open the door and gave Brelan a mock bow. "In you go, Lord Saur, but I'll have to lock you in with him." Brelan almost balked. Being locked in any cell was not to his liking. Being locked in with a man he didn't want to see was especially not to his liking. But he didn't want this grinning jackass to know how much it bothered him. With studied indifference, he raised one shoulder. "So lock it." Saur ducked under the low opening into the cell. The cavity was so dark he couldn't see, so he held out his hand. "Leave the torch." Kullen shrugged, extending the bundle of rushes to him. As Saur took it, he slammed the cell door in his face and fitted the key in the lock. "Call when you're ready to leave, Lord Saur," he snapped and strode off. Brelan heard a far off door bang shut and knew he would be in here for as long as the ill-conceived bastard could keep him. Taking a deep breath against his own stupidity for allowing himself to get into such a predicament, Brelan slipped the torch into an iron bracket to the side of the door, straightened his shoulders and turned to face his brother. At first they didn't speak. Brown eyes stared into blue; the blue eyes wary, the brown ill at ease. What seemed like an eternity passed in silence until a shriek from one of the other cells made both men jump. Blue gaze and brown leapt away. "Are you all right?" "As well as can be expected." Brelan looked around the cell. There was a stoneware jug of water on the floor; a tray of half-finished food sat beside it, although there were no utensils with which to eat the beans and bread. There was a mattress on the floor. There was no pillow, but a light blanket was folded neatly at the foot. A chamberpot sat in one corner. "All the comforts of home." "Everything I need." "Everything they will allow you." Conar's lips moved in a faint smile. "Same difference." Brelan really looked at Conar for the first time. His brother sat in the middle of the mattress, his knees pulled up and encompassed in the perimeter of his arms. He looked well enough; his face was shaven, his clothing was clean. But there were shadows lurking in the deepest recesses of those steady eyes that somehow touched Brelan in a way nothing ever had. He had to look away. "If you didn't want to come, Brelan, why did you?" The question was soft, not said with condemnation, but rather with pity. Brelan shook his head. "I'm the only one they'd allow in here." Conar understood. Brelan's visit was meant to hurt him. He stared at the far wall. When his brother didn't speak, Brelan faced him and saw tears running down Conar's cheeks. Seeing those tears bothered him, cut deep into his soul. When he at last found words, his voice was a mere whisper. "Is there anything I can do?" Conar had to take a hitching breath to stop his tears from bursting out. "There is nothing anyone can do, now, Bre." Brelan reacted without thinking. He sat down and gathered Conar in his arms. After all, he was here to represent the family. He had to put aside his own feelings, for someone needed to be here for this man. He pulled Conar's head to his shoulder, laid his cheek against Conar's. Too much envy and hatred and jealousy had passed under the bridges of their lives for them to deal easily with one another, no matter how trying the circumstances. It simply seemed to be enough for the both of them to sit there, their

arms around one another; one surrendering his pain, the other absorbing it. When at last Conar pushed away, there was a firmness in his voice that sounded almost normal. "I'll be all right, now." "I know you will." "There is one thing you can do for me." Brelan stood; he had to. "Name it." "Tell her…tell her goodbye for me." "You will be back, and if you aren't, we'll find a way to get her to you." A fleeting smile touched Conar's trembling lips. "For once in our lives, let's not lie to one another. You know as well as I, I'll never see her again. If I should survive tomorrow, there won't be anything left of me for her to want." Brelan could stand no more. He turned his back and yelled as loud as he could for the guard. He yelled again and again, his face white with his guilt at having helped put his brother in this cell. He yanked on the bars, pulled with all his strength. "Guard!" Conar understood; Brelan had to deal with this on his own. Brelan heard the far door opening. His breath came out in ragged, shallow, rapid staccato bursts and he turned to face Conar. "She sent her love to you. They all did. No one believes what was said about you. They all know you aren't capable of such things. They know you were probably tortured into signing that damned piece of shit they call a confession!" Conar saw pure fury on Brelan's face. The man quivered from head to toe. "They know you couldn't have done anything to hurt Papa, and they know Liza was more than likely threatened in some way and that's why you admitted to such a filthy thing as Tohre accused you of doing!" The guard was at the door, the key being fitted into the lock. "And they know you will stand there tomorrow like a man and accept what these sons-of-bitches are going to do to you and not be broken!" Conar could almost feel his brother's rage lashing out across the cell, but it wasn't directed at him. He had a feeling the anger had all been turned inward. The door swung outward. Another guard stood in the opening, a torch in his hand. "And their prayers are with you!" Brelan swiped angrily at the telltale moisture falling freely down his cheeks. "They know you are still one of the family!" "What about you, Brelan? Do you believe I'm innocent?" He had to ask; he had to know. Saur stared for a long time at his brother. He couldn't say the words he wanted to say, the words he knew Conar wanted to hear. With his body quivering, his heart thudding wildly, his hands trembling so violently he could hardly bear it, he backed out of the cell, hitting his head on the low hang of the opening. Cursing, he plastered himself on the far wall of the corridor. The door began to close, Conar's face being blotted out before he could bring words from his mouth. "The Wind be at your back, little brother!" he shouted and turned, running as hard and fast as he could away from that terrible place. *** "He will pay for it!" Tohre shouted at Tolkan. "I will see he pays for every moment of comfort he received!" Tolkan sat in his chair and regarded Tohre as though he were observing a bug in a specimen bottle. The old man's fingers were clasped lightly in his lap, the long nails curled upward. "I have more bad news for you, Tohre." "What?" It was a measure of Tohre's full fury that he dared to shout at the Arch-Prelate. As he watched Tolkan's

eyebrow lift, he knew he would pay dearly for such a breech of etiquette. "What bad news, Your Holiness," he mumbled. Tolkan unlaced his fingers and adjusted the sleeves of his robe, flicked a piece of lint from one cuff. "It seems the other two members of my Tribunal panel fear retaliation if the punishment tomorrow should, well, shall we say, incapacitate our prisoner? They feel, as do I, that the people might well revolt if such a stringent lashing is applied to their beloved Prince." He glanced up to see Tohre's furious face. "We have reduced the quantity of lashes to seventy-five." "That's half the amount passed!" Tohre exploded. Tolkan grinned. "I am glad you know your math, Tohre." "But why?" Tohre placed his hands on the top of the Arch-Prelate's desk. He bent toward the old man. "You agreed he should suffer." "He shall, Tohre. He shall. But we do not need to cripple him. He will suffer even more after his punishment than before it." He folded his hands again. "This is the Tribunal's decision to make and we have decided. Seventy-five lashes and exile." Kaileel seethed as he walked from the Prelate's office. If seventy-five were all the boy would get, they would be the very harshest seventy-five ever applied! *** He knew they were coming for him. He heard the creaking of rusty hinges on the door leading into the punishment cells. He tried to picture her face to draw strength from it. He could almost smell her lavender, could almost feel the soft, shining silk of her raven black hair. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his fraying nerves, to keep the picture of her precious face before him to sustain him during what was coming. Booted, shuffling feet stopped outside the door to his cell. He held his breath, squinted against the click of the key in its lock. Although he tried with all his might, he could not still the trembling in his hands nor the erratic beat of his heart. The door swung wide. From his place on the mattress, he glanced at the four guards and blinked rapidly against the flare of a torchlight. "It's time," one man said with an undertone of pity in the controlled words. He heaved himself painfully from the floor. He walked to them, ducked under the doorway and waited. He felt hands on his upper arms, heard the clink of manacle chain, and held out his wrists. The iron cuffs were slipped into place, snapped shut. He look at the man on his right, recognized him, but the guard wouldn't meet his eye. None of them would. He was struck again by the sheer agony of that one small gesture. He bowed his head. With one man ahead of him, one behind, and the other two to each side holding his arms, he was led into the inquisition chamber. The heavy iron door banged shut behind him. They led him to the iron chair in which he had been forced to sit many times before. The clank of iron chain puzzled him. He turned to see one of the guards coming toward him. The man pushed up the cuffs of his breeches. He felt the tight pull of legs irons being locked on his ankles. They were taking no chances, it seemed. When a guard slipped the leather strap around his chest to lash him to the chair, he looked up in confusion. He wanted to ask why they were doing this. Were they going to torture him again? Wasn't the beating going to be enough to satisfy them? But his tongue had become thick in his dry mouth. Liza's beautiful face wavered in his vision and he was striving hard to keep sight of it. He could taste the tart, watery spit of fear filling his mouth and tried to swallow, only to find it impossible. As the door into the inquisition chamber opened and Tohre walked through, he could not stop the groan. Tohre held up a vial of green fluid. "I have something for you, Conar."

Chapter 2 People began arriving in the square long before dawn. The executioner uneasily eyed the growing number of men and women, even children, who milled silently in a semi-circle around the Tribunal Hall steps, and knew crowd control would be a problem if people took it in their minds to stop the proceedings. The crowd stretched back in the courtyard as far as the scaffolding, but no one went near the long whipping post that stood off to one side, although the executioner noticed furtive, sidelong glances at the tall black structure. Even though he knew these people were here under Tribunal edict, the black-robed giant instinctively felt they would have come anyway. Perhaps he alone was the only one wishing to be as far from this place of death and destruction as possible. He could see them eyeing him with hate and disgust, and he realized deep in his soul that he was hated more than usual this day. Bent Armitage swept his obstructed vision around the crowd, then adjusted the eye-holes of his hood. He knew his duty to the Tribunal, but he knew the man about to be lashed to the whipping post was innocent. He had slept fitfully the night before with visions of the Prince's smiling face intruding into his nightmares. Somewhere toward the designated dawn hour, the giant man, seven foot nine in his stocking feet, four hundred pounds soaking wet, wept like a baby at the task forced upon him. Some of the men to be hanged were companions of his, boyhood friends with whom he had played. He felt sick to his stomach knowing he would be the one to end their lives. But his worst agony was in recognizing how much pain he would feel in his mind by what he was being forced to inflict on the young Prince. Every lash of the steel-tipped, crystal-barbed whip would cut as deeply into his soul as it did into Conar McGregor's flesh. Hopelessly, the man had turned his head to his chamberpot in order to relieve his gut of the bitter bile bubbling out of his mouth. Among the throng of humanity that kept vigil alongside the scaffolding were five of Conar's former mistresses. The women cried softly, clinging to one another or the men in their lives. They had forbidden their children to come to this vile place; the Commander had informed them of the Prince's request that his children not see him beaten. Out of respect for him, they were an orderly bunch, but just below the surface, their minds raged with the injustice they knew was being perpetrated against a man they loved. Despite what they had heard about him joining the dreaded Brotherhood of the Domination, they reasoned he must have had good cause. Seeing the vindictiveness with which the Tribunal used to deal with him, even the slowest one among them realized the Prince was on the receiving end of the Domination's revenge. There had been no executions in this courtyard in more than twenty years. The people were not happy with the sentences and had been vocal about it. Their grumbling comments were heard during the week since Conar's sentencing; they had been called together and told, if they dared attempt a rescue of any prisoner, Conar would be the first to die. It had been the shouts and vitriolic fury at those words that caused the Tribunal to shear in half the amount of lashes to be applied to the Prince's bare back. "He can stand seventy-five lashes!" someone had called to the crowd. "He can't withstand a blade dragged across his throat like his wee daughter had done to her!" Mumbles of agreement ran through the crowd. The Prince could survive the lashing. Through no act of his people would they allow him to suffer and die in an attempt to save him from his fate. They had disbursed. Now as they stood waiting for him to appear, many wondered if they had been right in not trying to rescue him. Their looks skipped to the whipping post and slid nervously away. Could any man survive, intact, seventy-five lashes with a cat-'o-nine? The sudden loud bang of a gong made everyone jump. The doors to the Inquisition Facility opened. Every eye focussed on the narrow black portals. A trio of drummers emerged, the steady beat of a dirge bringing the hair on everyone's arms to attention; the slow, muffled rap on the drum-heads sent shivers of fear down every spine.

A quartet of guards followed the drummers. In their hands, they held pikes. They walked down the seven steps leading from the portico to the flagstone pathway. It was evident in their stance and stare that, if trouble came, they would use the deadly-looking pikes whose tips gleamed sharply in the early morning light. Behind the guards, walking single file, the six Elite who had been sentenced to die walked as proudly as their wrist manacles and leg irons would allow. They held their heads high and managed to show contempt for their situation in the erect bearing of their tired, tortured bodies. As they descended the steps, they cast looks among the crowd for the faces of loved ones. When such a face was found, a gentle smile lifted the Elite's mouth before looking away. They had found their strength; they had found their comfort. As they were led up the steps to the scaffolding, they never once looked at one another, never looked at the wooden structure of their death, never looked at the solitary post of wood standing ten feet away. Their attention stayed riveted to the pathway leading to the big double doors of the Tribunal Hall. Tension mounted as the big doors remained closed. The sun was well past its birthing and still no sound could be heard behind the tall panels. Guards had been placed every two feet along the perimeter of the Tribunal Hall's steps. When the door opened, they came to attention, their swords raised and crossed in front of their chests. They scanned the crowd for troublemakers. These men were members of the King's Vanguard, the special unit of soldiers assigned to guard the keep. None of them believed Conar guilty of the crimes, for the man's punishment was far too severe to be anything but what the village and keep folk already knew—revenge. But it was vital to the King, and even more so to the Princess, that no one attempt to disrupt the proceedings and, in the doing, jeopardize the Prince's life. It became obvious these men still thought of him in that light by the small strip of black material looped around their sword arms in sympathy with Conar's plight. From the Tribunal Hall's dark interior, the clank of chains could be heard. All breath stopped; heads craned; bodies twisted; people strained to see inside the door's opening. An incomprehensible order was shouted from within, followed by the sharp, unmistakable crack of flesh against flesh. The chains clattered again, sounding much like metal hitting marble, the tinny pitch echoing off the floor of the vestibule. "They've knocked him down," someone near the steps said. Murmurs of protests ran though the people assembled. The guards looked warily about, their arms tensed, their hands clutched around the hilts of their weapons. The crowd surged slightly forward; soldiers strained to contain them. Once more the chains clattered and a soft groan wafted out to the crowd. A shouted, "Get up, damn you!" rang out and the chains rattled again. Then, the shuffling of feet scraping along marble could be heard until, finally, Conar was led out into the light. A gasp went through the crowd, a choked-off cry here and there. Eyes misted and faces were temporarily averted as their Overlord was pushed forcefully into the midst of the guards. "Was that necessary, Priest?" a man shouted. A woman's voice echoed, "He ain't no dog!" Those in the crowd who didn't have a clear view stood on tiptoe to see what caused the sudden rush of emotion. Upon seeing what the others had, they hissed and booed. Around his throat, a wide metal collar attached to a long chain held by the High Priest Kaileel Tohre restrained Conar. His hands were manacled in front of him with a thick, heavy, black iron chain; the very weight pulled painfully at his arms and dragged his shoulders down so far he had to hunch in his effort to stay erect. "Where the hell did you think he could run, Priest?" "How the hell did you think he could escape?" "Aye, look at them leg irons!" Angry shouts flew through the crowd and bounced off the walls surrounding the courtyard. Curses rained down on

Kaileel Tohre's blond head. Conar was barely aware of the shouts. His head was bent against the harshness of the bright light and he blinked rapidly to adjust his vision to a sun he hadn't seen in many weeks. The wristbands were clamped so tight, his fingers were already turning blue and throbbing, the veins on the backs of his hands standing out in sharp relief. His shoulders felt as though they were being pulled from the sockets. "Look at them!" Tohre shouted, and jerked sharply on the chain around Conar's throat. Conar's head snapped back, his face straining against the agony of constriction. He lost his balance from the suddenness of Tohre's action and stumbled, but the guard walking directly behind him kept him upright. Winding the chain around his fist until his knuckles were tight against the side of Conar's neck, Tohre forced up the prisoner's head so he was looking directly at the crowd. "Look at them! They are here to bear witness to your downfall!" Kaileel hissed, pulling on the chain. "I want them to see a traitor!" But it was not a traitor these people saw. They saw a man, barely able to stand. The once-proud Prince they had admired and respected all of his life now gazed forlornly back at them with humiliation. Conar could hardly breathe for the tight compression around his throat. He coughed against the pull on his windpipe and felt Tohre's knuckles grazing his flesh. "Get down those steps before I pull you down!" Tohre snarled. He placed his hand in the small of Conar's back and shoved. Although he stumbled, Conar kept himself from falling. Slowly, painfully, taking as wide a step as the leg irons would permit, he made his way down the staircase. His chest burnt with every breath, two of his ribs grating against one another where Kullen's boot had connected with his ribcage late the evening before. It took a great deal of effort just to hold his aching shoulders back as far as he could, for the chains on his hands were pulling them down farther with every step. He forced himself to endure the horrible pressure without moaning, knowing it had been Tohre's intention to humiliate him in this fashion. If he could only continue to keep his head up, his shoulders back, then maybe he could prevent his spirit from being broken. They could beat him until his flesh hung in shreds, force him to watch the murder of his friends, but he was damned if he would allow them to bring him to his knees before his people. No one, as yet, had ever had the power to do that. Conar had made up his mind to show his people a courage he didn't truly feel. He wanted to keep the pain he knew was coming from showing as long as he could humanly do so. He didn't think he could keep from screaming, that was inevitable, but he wanted to prolong that as long as he could. Liza's name crossed his troubled mind and he drew strength from it. As long as she was not a witness to this and as long as she did not hear his groans, he could endure. Her face flashed in his mind and he took a deep, steadying breath before stepping from the last riser and onto the gravel pathway that led past the scaffolding. Complete, utter silence settled over the courtyard. As he cleared the last step and walked by the first brace of guards he was surprised to see the people begin to go down on their knees as he passed, their heads bowed, their right fists clenched over their hearts. Men, women, and children alike showed their loyalty in the time-honored tradition of serf to master, subject to monarch, and made it plain that they still saw him in that light. Kaileel came to a halt, glaring at the people. "Get up! This man is a commoner! A traitor!" When the crowd raised their heads and stared at him with hate, he grew livid. "I told you to get up! You cannot show this man homage! I will not permit it!" Conar felt the surge of pride in his people, and this calm rebellion told him eloquently in deed what they could not say in word; their act brought his head a little higher, a slight smile to his lips. "I demand you get to your feet!" Kaileel shouted and brought back his hand to strike Conar.

Hebra, the Chief Temple Guard, stepped forward, grabbing his upraised arm. "The crowd will revolt, Your Worship!" Impotent fury lit Tohre's cadaverous face and he yanked hard on Conar's chain. His face came close so that only the prisoner could hear his words. "I promise you. After you are gone, they will pay a dear price for having shown you such misguided loyalty!" People stood as he moved past them, turning so they could follow his progress. They were silent, their eyes speaking words they dared not utter. It was more than obvious to all that Tohre wanted an excuse to hurt their Prince. If Conar could bear such pain without speaking, they could watch. The nearer he came to the platform where his men stood waiting for their lives to be snuffed out, the harder it was for Conar to force his body on. He was brave, and no one ever had reason to doubt his courage, but inside, deep in his gut, he felt the drowning pain of his fear and cowardice raising its betraying head. He knew what the pain of losing his friends was going to be like, for he had lost friends over the years: men like Rayle Loure. It was never easy to accept. At least in war or, even in a fight such as the one in which Rayle had died, a man's life was taken for the good of his country or his King. In this obscenity of justice, six innocent men, six good men guilty only of their love and loyalty to him, would die traitor's deaths for nothing. Their blood would be shed, their lives lost, due solely to their association with Conar. It was almost too much for him to bear. There would be more lost here today than just the lives of his friends, he thought dismally. His honor was being destroyed. His good name had been questioned. His reputation would be besmirched for generations. He had been wrongfully accused, and even more wrongfully convicted, of crimes he had no part in committing. He wondered briefly if the real culprits would ever be found. He suspected Tymothy Kullen had been one of the men guilty of attacking his father. It wasn't the fear of the actual pain that turned his insides to jelly. It was the humiliation of being stripped and flogged like a common criminal that made him so afraid. It wasn't the pain of branding every seditionist received afterward that he feared. The searing of the iron didn't frighten him half as much as the mark proclaiming him a traitor for all the world to behold. Not that it would matter in his coffin, for no one would glimpse it anyway. But the gods would see it on his judgment day, a badge of degrading shame on his flesh for all eternity. Kaileel stopped him as they came to the middle of the platform on which the scaffolding stood. Conar looked at each of the six men whose necks were already encircled with hemp. Each of them braved a smile, and it tore at his heart. Tears welled up; his body quivered with heartfelt apology. His gaze went to the black-hooded executioner who stood holding the common lever, and he shivered. He was about to speak to his friends, these men of his Elite Guard, to beg for their forgiveness for having led them to this sorry pass, but two Tribunal Guards put their heavy hands on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees in the dirt. Conar turned a confused face up to Tohre, wanting to ask what was happening, but Kaileel stepped quickly behind him, forced a black silk gag securely around his mouth, and tied it as quickly as possible before he could jerk away his head. "What are you doing?" Hebra hissed to his Master. "I want no words of apology from him to these men!" Kaileel whispered, fiercely. One of the men on the scaffolding called down in a pleading voice, "For the love of Alel, don't do that to him!" The crowd surged forward, pressing up to the platform, angrily hissing their disapproval. "Ain't you bastards done enough to the boy?" someone yelled. "Quiet!" Kaileel screamed. "For every word you speak in this bastard's defense, for every angry murmur, for each time you show him fealty, twenty lashes will be added to his punishment. It matters little to me if you have such low regard for him. His agony will be on your heads!" He grabbed a handful of Conar's hair and forced back his head. "Let's see how well your people love you, Conar!"

The cords in Conar's neck stood out as his head was forced back even further. The pull on his scalp was a fiery agony. He sank on his haunches, tried to turn his head from the sight of his men staring down at him with pity, but Tohre tugged harder on his hair and flung up a hand to the executioner. "Wait!" Bending down, he placed his mouth close to Conar's ear. "What are you threatening him with now, Priest?" the same man called from the scaffolding. Tohre glanced up. "Ninety-five lashes, Armitage," he told the executioner. "You can't do that!" someone shouted. "One hundred and fifteen!" Utter silence plunged through the courtyard. When he was satisfied no more complaints were forthcoming, Kaileel put his lips to Conar's ear. His fetid breath fanned the young man's cheeks. "Pay close attention, Conar. If you so much as blink, I will have these men cut down before they strangle and they will be hoisted up again and again until you can keep your eyes steadily on them." He flung Conar's head away from his taut grasp. Conar groaned, for he had no doubt Tohre would do as he said. Glancing up at the leering man standing over him, he pushed up his body and looked to the platform. The only indication that he would behave was the slight sag in his shoulders. Kaileel laughed. "Good. Now see what your ambition has brought your friends!" With tears cascading down his pale cheeks, Conar watched helplessly as the black-hooded executioner loosened the rope that controlled the trapdoor lever. Unlike the normal apparatus that was quick-sprung, making the trapdoor fall sharply away and insuring the prisoner's neck were broken moments before they could strangle, this demonic invention was designed so the doors slid slowly away. The result was a slow, lingering death by strangulation as the victim's feet slid out from under them and the noose slowly tightened, cutting off their air. Beneath his gag, Conar's lips trembled; he knew their death would be terribly painful. His mind flew back through time, many, many years earlier, when he had saved his brother, Jah-Ma-El, from such a hanging when the older boy had tried to kill himself at the monastery. He wished with all his heart and soul and being that he could save these men, too. As the trapdoors began to fall, as the hemp began to tighten around their necks, as their feet began to slide out from under them, the six men, all faithful to their Overlord, waited until death began to hover over them, before they opened their mouths. In a strangled, gurgling, united gasp, their lips parted and their calls above the grinding gears lowering the trapdoors were like bolts of lightning from the heavens. "May the wind be at your back, Conar McGregor, Prince of the Wind!" they shouted as their life's breath was squeezed from their bodies. Conar's throat constricted. His mind had numbed itself to the horror he was being forced to watch, but the chant of the ancient battle cry, his own battle cry, brought him struggling to his feet, fighting desperately against his captors. He strained in their grasp, violently trying to free himself. He swung his wrist chain at two of the guards, hitting one in the face, smashing the man's nose and breaking his jaw. He caught a brief glimpse of Tohre's enraged face as the neck chain slid down his grasping palms, breaking open the mottled flesh on the High Priest's hands. Kaileel yelped but managed to continue gripping the chain attached to Conar's neck. He began to pull it hand over hand toward him, wincing from the links searing his palm. His only satisfaction was seeing Conar gasping as the chain kept him from getting free. "Restrain him! Restrain him, you fools!" he ordered the guards. The last words of his friends, their loyalty and faith in him made clear to all who stood in the Tribunal Square, set off an animalistic spasm of pain throughout Conar's entire body. The words rang in his ears and he fought hard to keep the guards from laying hands on him. Although Kaileel was jerking hard on his chain, Conar struggled, keeping the others from grasping him by swinging the heavy manacle at their heads. He was beyond caring about the physical pain he felt in his wrists and hands as the scraping of the irons broke open his flesh. The mental agony of seeing his friends hanging before his eyes, their bodies twitching in death, all but blotted out everything else. His only objective was to get to the bodies of his men, to try to save them before they strangled to death.

Kaileel spun around, his hard gaze settling on Tymothy Kullen as he wove his way through the crowd to reach Conar. "Do something, you bastard!" Kaileel screeched. "Take him!" The executioner looked down at the man Tohre had spoken to and saw bloodlust in the man's eyes. He also saw a dagger. He looked to his Prince. The Temple Guards had managed to circle him and were pummeling Conar with fists and leather-wrapped clubs. Loathe to see the young man suffer even one more ounce of pain than he had to, Bent Armitage jumped from the scaffolding platform. He put out a long, thick arm to shove away Tymothy Kullen as he moved in with his dagger aimed at the Prince's back. With a heavy hand, Bent sliced down on the juncture of Conar's throat and shoulder and the young man's knees buckled. The crowd was trying to push through the cordon of guards who now formed a tight ring around Conar. They barred access to the Prince with lances and swords and drawn blades. Shouts and cries filled the air; rocks and refuse rained down on the guards as they valiantly tried to keep back the crowd. Those gathered were fast becoming an angry mob bent on the destruction of all those who had anything to do with the day's events. Their howling rage carried into the very palace, bringing Legion, Thom, and Sentian at a run from the keep. By order of the Tribunal, Legion and any others who were directly connected with the Elite Guard had been forced, at swordpoint, to stay inside. Having been ordered away from the punishment yard did not sit well with them, but they realized the extent of harm it would cause Conar if he knew they were there watching. But now, hearing the angry, cursing voices, the men knew something was wrong. They pushed their way through the guarded doors, using fists and feet to gain their exit, and desperately tried to wind their way through the violent mob. Legion managed to leap upon the scaffolding platform, stunned by the sight of men he knew swinging side by side from the beam. He pushed aside guards who blocked his view of what was happening at the platform's steps. He saw Conar yanked to his feet. His brother looked dazed and disoriented, but he was struggling, nonetheless. He was being dragged toward the whipping post, his arms held by two men while Tohre tried to restrain him with a neck chain. "Son-of-a-bitch!" Legion exploded, seeing the slave collar. He hit one guard who jumped to the platform to keep him at bay. "Get the hell out of my way!" Thom pushed through the crowd in time to see Conar trying to free himself from the men who were half-pulling, half-carrying him up the steps to the whipping post. He pushed two guards out of his way, kicked a third in the groin, and drew back a meaty fist to plow it into a fourth guard's jaw, opening the way for Legion to leap from the platform and run toward his brother. Conar tried to focus on the men holding him as he bucked in their grasp, but all he could see was a red blur of rage. He howled, spat, and snarled through the black silk gag, and fought ferociously with the men dragging him up the steps. He felt his shins scrape over the steps. His teeth clicked together as he was slammed hard into the black upright. His hands were jerked high above his head, his feet actually leaving the platform, as the men hooked the chain between the wrist irons over a set of double hooks in the whipping post. He felt something hard and agonizing ram into his left kidney and jerked his head around to see Tymothy Kullen's furious face. "Cry, you little bastard!" Kullen snarled and rammed his meaty fist once more into Conar's back. "Cry!" Kaileel managed to climb the steps, his ceremonial dagger in hand. He had let go of the neck chain as Conar was dragged up the steps because the pain in his hands was too great. Screeching obscenities at the mob, he shoved Kullen out of his way, took Conar's hair in his left hand, and yanked back the bound man's head. With his right hand, he brought the sharp, serrated-edged blade to Conar's exposed throat. "Quiet them!" he yelled at the executioner who had bulldozed his way up the steps. "Quiet them, now, or I will slit his throat!" Legion pushed aside men and women. He bounded up the steps and heard Kaileel's words, saw the insanity in the man's wild eyes and spun around to face the mob. He couldn't, he dared not, take chances with his brother's life. He waved his arms, began shouting at the mob to quiet it. His shouts could not be heard over the din, but one by one the crowd recognized what was happening. They stared in

shock at the blade against Conar's flesh and the angry howls began to stop. There was a break in the hissing and Legion's words filtered back all the way to the Temple steps. "You'll do him more harm if you try to stop the punishment!" Legion said huskily. He jerked his head toward Tohre, thought briefly of trying to disarm him, but there were already eight to ten Temple and Tribunal Guards circling the platform. Four were standing with swords drawn on the, and he knew he didn't have a chance of trying anything before Tohre could drag the blade across his brother's exposed throat. He saw Tohre glaring at him with the promise of Conar's death and he looked back at the crowd. "This bastard will kill him if you cause trouble. If you value Conar's life, don't give Tohre the excuse he wants to end it!" "Spoken like a true diplomat!" Kaileel sneered. "Get that damn blade away from my brother's throat, Tohre, or I swear before the gods and man I will rip out your throat!" "Get off this platform," Kaileel warned, the blade pressed tightly to Conar's throat. "Now!" Legion knew if Conar stood any chance of surviving this evil, he had to be close by, to stop anything lethal from happening. He looked the High Priest in the eye. "I'm staying." Kaileel's face turned crimson with rage. "Get off this platform!" "I stay!" Tohre wanted to order the guards to drag A'Lex from the platform, but a fleeting thought went through his fevered mind. "If you stay, Lord Legion, you will be the one to strip his shirt from him!" He smiled evilly. "Bare his back!" Legion took a step toward Tohre, his hands itching to strangle the bastard. But the executioner stepped in front of him. "Do it, Commander," Bent Armitage pleaded, his dark eyes glistening wetly through the hooded slits. "Rip the shirt easily. Tohre might let that bastard standing beside him do it and I fear he will hurt the prince." Legion glanced at the red-haired man who stood beside Conar. Intuitively he realized he had an ally in Bent; something told him Bent would lash Conar as gently as he could, a feat the big man was quite capable of doing since he was an expert with the cat-'o-nine that lay draped over the railing. "Bent," Legion started to protest. He really didn't want to shame Conar in this way. "Just do it, man!" Legion nodded. He walked to Conar, staring at Kaileel until the man began to ease the knife from Conar's throat. "Get that red-headed son-of-a-bitch off this platform, Tohre. He's got no business here!" Kaileel shrugged indifferently. "You may leave, Mr. Kullen," he said smoothly. "Lord A'Lex will do your duty." He placed the dagger in his robe. Legion waited until Tohre had stepped back. He ground his teeth and moved behind his brother, grasped the neck of Conar's shirt. "I'm sorry, Conar," he whispered. Legion snarled, his hands tensing. Before he could give himself time to think, he pulled on the cambric and the shirt ripped until the bare expanse of his brother's back was revealed. "Now," Kaileel sneered. "You may remove the gag. I mean to hear him scream!" Legion spun around, his fists clenched, but Bent once more stepped in front of him. "I'll do it, Commander." Legion stepped back. With a bleak look, the executioner gently removed the black silk.

Tohre nodded to the executioner. "Do your job!" With a look of apology, Bent took a broad leather strap from beside the cat-'o-nine. He looped it around Conar, belting it tightly against the post. "Forgive me, Highness," the giant said softly. "I do not want to do this." Conar pressed his forehead to the wooden post to blot out Kaileel's grinning face. The giant man's soft words made him turn to the executioner "There is nothing to forgive, Bent. I put no blame on you." He tried to force a smile, but it wouldn't come. His mouth was suddenly dry, his lips numb. The gentle giant reached out a trembling hand to stroke the bright blond hair. "Please forgive me," he whispered again and lurched away from the post, swooping down to pick up the nine-pronged whip that would destroy the flesh on Conar's broad back. The rawhide whip was braided from the hilt to within eight inches of the tips where it flared out into nine long strips of leather. Each strip was tied at the ends with chips of crystal and barbed steel. The whistling sound the whip made as Bent unwound it on the platform, the clanking noise made by the barbed tips as they struck the wood, brought total silence to those assembled. Legion looked at his brother's back, squinting as he caught sight of the faint white criss-crossed lines almost invisible now. He had once asked Conar why he had been punished at the Wind Temple when he was a child, and Conar had turned away. With his gaze going beyond the scarred flesh to Tohre's leering face, Legion thought he had at last found the answer. He had been punished to satisfy Tohre. "Begin!" Kaileel shouted. Legion turned his head. It was not in him to see what was going to be done. The heart inside his chest was breaking. Tears slid silently down his cheeks as he heard the first swoosh of the whip, the crack of leather and steel-tipped barbs laying open his brother's broad back.

Chapter 3 King Gerren sat on the black crystal throne in his palace, staring straight ahead, his mind a confused veil of sorrow. He had been able to ignore the beat of the drums signaling the procession of the condemned men. He had tried to ignore the indistinct shouting of the High Priest as he screamed his defiance at the crowd. In his heart, he knew the shouting had either been a direct cause of something Conar had suffered or was about to. The sounds of the dying men as they chanted the Serenian battle cry had pierced his concentration; the angry cries of the mob broke his self-imposed catatonia. With hesitant steps, he descended the throne's dias and went to the balcony overlooking the Tribunal Square. Putting his suddenly sweating hands on the handles, he took a deep breath and then flung wide the filigreed doors, stepping onto the balcony where Hern already stood. "You don't want to see this, Gerren," Hern said gently. "Go back inside, my friend." With all his heart he wished he had not ventured outside, for the sight of Conar being forcibly dragged to the whipping post brought a tremor to Gerren. When his son's hands were jerked upward, spread wide apart and latched to the wooden beam, the King moaned deep in his guilt-ridden soul. He gripped the iron railing, his knuckles white. "Gerren, please don't watch." "I have to, Hern. I am the cause of it." Gerren watched as Legion jumped onto the whipping post platform. Legion was doing all he could to protect his brother and Gerren thought again of how his oldest son had argued with The Tribunal after the sentencing. Argued until the Synod had threatened to incarcerate him as well. He would always

remember Legion's eyes as they bore into him, accusing, hurt, shamed that his father would do nothing to stop the severity of Conar's punishment. "Whycan't you do something, Papa?Why can't you help him? Have you no conception of what a hundred and fifty lashes will do to your son?" "Aye, I know!" Gerren shouted. "And Iwill do something, Legion! Give metime!" Gerren had wept that day as his son was dragged away from the courtroom, pulled about like a common criminal, shut out from the world of the living. The knowledge that his child would have to endure untold humiliation at the whipping post had been bad enough, but to have the sentence so harsh, so vile, had been another matter. He could not imagine what it had done to his son. The boy's face had been filled with terror. And hehad done something to help. He had gone before the people, hinting at Conar's torture, speaking his mind, telling the people his son was innocent and that he held no blame on Conar for what had been done to him during the attack. He sobbed before his people and his grief reached out to the Serenians who called for a reduction of the amount of lashes. They could all live with Conar's exile. That had been a foregone conclusion with the signing of the confession. But when the Tribunal had called for Conar's blood and pain because of the adultery charges, there was not a single soul that day within the courtyard square who believed such vicious lies about their overlord. "He might have joined them bastards for the power they could give him, Majesty," one man had yelled, "but it weren't for no such evil as what they accused him!" "Aye! If the prince be guilty of betraying his princess, it would've been with a pretty woman. That's for sure!" someone else retorted. "Not no man!" "Ain't a pretty man among that heathen bunch!" one of the Palace guards snarled. "Ain't aman among that sorry bunch!" another spat. Now, standing on the balcony, watching his son being strapped to the upright, Gerren felt as though the world as he knew it was coming to an end. "Gerren, you should not see this," Hern repeated. "If he has to endure it, I have to watch." Hern opened his mouth to speak, but the first crack of the executioner's whip sang through the still air. The stalwart Master-at-Arms flinched like a green boy, his head swinging away from his friend to the terrible, unspeakable thing going on below. A pitiful moan escaped Gerren as that first blow struck his son's back. He made himself stand still; he had to watch every blow that would tear at his son's flesh. He would feel the boy's pain with each flap of the steel-tipped whip. He clung to the railing, never once looking away from the bound figure of the son he loved more than all the others. A small, evil voice inside his head crooned to him, taunted him, mimicked him. "Did you love him so much when you told him he was dead to you? Did you love him so much when you disinherited him? Made him a commoner so that this very thing could be done to him? Did you love him so much when his child was lost and he needed your support? Where was your great love then, Gerren of Serenia?" Hern, too, was feeling the guilt of allowing such a fate to befall his young protégé. This boy was like a son to him. He cared deeply for Conar as he had cared deeply, too deeply, for the boy's mother. Standing there, watching Conar being tortured, for that was exactly what it was—torture—was like being a participant in the evil. The second lash fell. Gerren's knees threatened to buckle. He felt Hern's arms go around him. "Forgive me, my son," he whimpered. "Forgive me." *** When the first whistle of the whip cut through the air, Conar had tensed. He'd shut his eyes tight, pressed his forehead against the wood, and turned his face into the torn sleeve of his shirt, trying to hide from Kaileel's eager look.

But he'd had no way to prepare himself for the fiery agony streaking down his back from right shoulder to left hip. His eyes flew wide open and he bit his lips to keep from crying out. This was worse than he had imagined. Far worse than anything he had ever experienced as a child. Twice as bad as Tolkan's bamboo rods, ten times worse than the leather belt Kaileel had applied so diligently upon his back when he was a boy. Much, much worse than the whipping his father had given him the year before. This was an agony that defied description. The second lash caught him fully across his lower back and his body jerked against the chains holding him. He thought he had known pain before. He was wrong. With the third, fourth, and fifth blows, his flesh was criss-crossed with angry red welts. The sixth and seventh formed an X down the center of his back, and he felt the skin split from shoulder to hip with the eight, ninth and tenth hits. Another two blows sent him crashing into the post despite the restriction of the wide leather belt anchoring his waist to the upright. The stroke curled around his right shoulder and his hands began to dig convulsively into the wood, trying to unhook his manacles from the beam. The lashes came too fast for him to react, their stinging barbs digging into his tender flesh, leaving long bands of throbbing heat down his left and right sides. He felt his skin rip open as the lash caressed him from hip to hip. It was all he could do to suppress the moans being pushed up his throat. His entire back was on fire and he stopped counting as the blows lapped hungrily at his right side. Kaileel stared avidly at Conar's sweating face. The young man's blood was flowing freely down his breeches and dripping with silent splatters to the floor of the wooden platform. Each time the proud young body was flung against the post, Kaileel knew a pleasure beyond compare. His face was filled with an unholy gleam of pure evil, and a fine line of sweat lay on his upper lip. When the thirty-first blow landed and the young man arched back his head, his neck muscles straining, his lips pulled back in a grimace of ungodly agony, Kaileel licked his lips and felt the first stirrings of sexual arousal. Nothing but red-hot pain was registering. Conar could no longer concentrate on keeping his lips tightly pressed together. He was grunting with every blow. He tried to force his thoughts away from the slicing whip, but with every sting, all conscious effort fled to be replaced by the involuntary jerk of his body as the whip slid down him. Kaileel saw Conar look at him. But there was no recognition in those glazed pupils. There was nothing but pain. Conar's breathing was shallow, rapid, gasping. Blood dripped down his chin and onto his chest as his teeth ground into the softness of his lips and cheeks. One of the blows caught him low, almost across his buttocks, and he lurched so hard into the beam, snapping his teeth so tightly together, Kaileel heard the click. Conar began to pray for death. He knew he couldn't endure too much more. It was taking every ounce of his waning strength to keep away the screams. His jaws were aching from the pressure of trying to keep his teeth clenched. When the next blow landed, he whined. Kaileel heard the whimper and his lips pulled back from his teeth. It wouldn't be long now. Within only a matter of moments, the screaming would begin. There was no way the man could keep himself from letting out the purely animal release such agony required. Another blow popped from right shoulder to left and Conar's fingers clawed further into the wooden beam. He was only vaguely aware of the long oak slivers embedding themselves under his nails. His fingertips began to ooze blood down his palms and forearms, saturating the tight cuffs of his shirt, running under the clasp of his wrist irons. Each repeated lash hurled his helpless body into the post, bruising, splitting the skin on his forehead and cheeks as he tried to escape the whip's sting. There was no way he could smother a whimper the next time the lash struck. Along with the strip of flesh that was torn from Conar's body with the blow came a moan loud enough to draw Legion's attention. He turned to see what up until then he had refused to watch. Legion stared with shock. How could the man retain consciousness? he thought. His brother's back was a wet red hunk of shredded flesh. He looked up to see Conar's fingers digging into the beam, curling with rigid spasms as he tried to pull his wrists free of the manacles, saw the blood flowing freely down those ravaged fingertips, and Legion's mouth sagged open with stunned surprise. Why doesn't he pass out? Legion wondered with dismay. Why doesn't he scream?

When the lash curled itself around his right forearm, the barbs ripped through his shirt sleeve to open a long graze on the tender flesh inside his elbow. Conar's mouth opened in a savage pant, like a wounded animal. Blood oozed down his left nostril. Bloody spittle dripped from his torn lips. Sentian Heil had slowly pushed his way through the now silent crowd. He had been right behind Legion and Thom as they ran from the keep. But the sight of his beloved Conar being dragged like an animal to the whipping post had so terrified Sentian, so stunned him, he had stopped, his body paralyzed with his inability to halt what he knew was coming. As the blows began, he had started to walk, easing past the set, angry and hurt faces of the people who clung to one another as they watched this barbaric spectacle. He saw women and children crying, men with tears in their eyes, men who were unashamed that others saw their weakness. He watched as one of Conar's women buried her face in the soft bosom of another mistress, both crying openly with wracking sobs that shook their shoulders. He saw men with clenched teeth, young boys with murder on their beardless faces. And then he saw Brelan Saur. Brelan had made his way to the platform just as Conar was strapped to the upright. He had pushed past two of his father's palace guards, glaring back at them as they moved to block his way. He had dared them to interfere with his move toward the steps of the platform. Satisfied when the men dropped their gazes, he had eased to the first step and gazed up at the giant man welding the whip. He turned to see Sentian Heil standing beside him. "Come to enjoy this, Lord Saur?" Sentian hissed. "Did you?" Bent Armitage was praying the prince would black out. There were nineteen lashes to go on the original edict. He would be drawn and quartered before he applied the extra forty blows with which Kaileel had taunted the crowd. His arm was already weary, his huge heart rending inside his massive chest as he drew the whip over his shoulder once more. He stopped with the whip there, panting as though he had run a long race, swallowed and ran his free hand over his sweating face. The underarms of his black tunic were saturated with sweat and his clothing was plastered to his flesh even though the air was cold enough to freeze water. Tears were blocking his vision, had been since the first stroke. "What are you waiting for?" Tohre shouted, his angry eyes wild, rolling in his red face. "Get on with it! Don't stop!" A scream was pushing its way out of the very depths of Conar McGregor. The sudden lull in the beating had brought with it the hope that the pain was over. The scream was running up his throat like a ravaging wolf, but he knew he could keep it at bay if the pain had stopped. The burning agony was excruciating, but he had endured it. Had there been seventy-five blows? One hundred? More? He had no idea. He was only grateful the terrible pain had stopped; that it was over. But it wasn't. Bent sent the whip forward again to connect with the pulpy mass that had once been a human back. The snap of leather, the meaty thud of steel-tips against the prince's back sounded like a death-knell in the giant's ears. Conar's body crashed into the beam. It wasn't over, he thought with panic. Sweet Alel, it wasn't over! He desperately tried to hold back the scream. He tried to force his body upward to slide the manacles from the hook, yet still that horrible scream threatened to unman him before his people. He worked his fingertips into the wood, scraping, plowing eight furrows into the grain. The cords in his neck stood out like separate entities. His lips drew back in a feral snarl, his tongue caught between his teeth. He felt another lash cut deep into his blazing back, he felt his flesh shredding, pulling away from his rib cage in a long, wide strip. He clamped his mouth shut, bit through his tongue, his upper lip sliding over the wood of the upright. "Pass out," Sentian begged. "For the love of Alel, pass out!" Another lash descended. "Pass out, Conar," Brelan prayed.

Still another. "Let go, little one," Hern mumbled. And another. It was all he could stand. Throwing back his head, Conar filled the air with an unearthly, piercing scream. It echoed around the Tribunal Square, washed over the suddenly still crowd, flooded the souls of every man and woman and child. Brelan flinched. He wondered how Conar had lasted this long. By his count, the whip had landed sixty-one times. He had been slammed repeatedly into the post with such force it was a wonder he was still conscious. And yet Conar had kept the scream at bay. As yet another blow reigned down on him, another uncontrollable scream came from the young man's parched throat. Another lash, another scream. Two lashes, two more screams. With each descent of the lash, Conar's howl rent the air. Ten more lashes fell in quick succession and Conar screamed with each blow. "That was seventy-five!" a voice yelled. "I counted 'em, too! Bent got him seventy-five times!" "No more!" Kaileel skirted the post and shouted at the crowd. "Did you forget the extra forty blows you caused him?" He turned to Bent. "Forty more, Armitage!" Staring at the lunatic before him, the executioner shook his head. He extended the whip to the High Priest. "I willnot be the one to do it!" The crowd had grown still, straining to hear what the giant said. Tohre now held the blood- and skin-flecked leather whip and the giant stalked off the platform. A cheer went up as the crowd became aware of Bent's refusal. Brelan stared up at Tohre. Drool ran down the thin, slitted lips and a nameless evil filled his red face. He was looking at the whip in his hand with a strange look of excitement as though he were gazing at a lover. Brelan shivered as Tohre turned to the crowd. "Who will finish this?" Tymothy Kullen started forward, but a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. He looked up into the dangerous eyes of Thom Loure. "Don't even think about it," Loure warned. "Who?" Kaileel shouted again. His anxious gaze fell on Brelan. "You! Saur! You have no love for this man. Take the whip and finish the forty blows!" Brelan looked to where his brother hung. "No!" Tohre spun around, thrust the whip toward Legion. "No!" came the immediate reply. Turning once more to the crowd, Kaileel held up the whip. "Is there not one among you who has the courage to give this man his due?" From somewhere in the back of the crowd it began. It was a faint voice, a woman's voice. It was repeated off to the far left, echoed from the right. Then in the middle. Someone in front took up the sound. Then several voices were speaking in unison. Then a few more. Still more, until the entire crowd began to chant. Their voices were no longer weak. The volume was growing. The anger was growing. The hatred was growing. Hands began to clap slowly, loudly. Feet began to stomp, pounding the flagstone square and the Temple and Tribunal steps like the hooves of a mighty herd of wild stallions. The chant filled the square, every voice in unison with the slow,

prolonged clap as the words rang out clear and strong:" Conar! Conar! Conar!" Brelan looked around, his the only silent voice among those of his friends and Conar's, among the people loyal to his brother. His arms had been crossed over his chest, but now he put them down. He glanced up at Legion and saw his brother clapping to the chant's slow rhythm, saw his mouth moving to the words. He looked at Conar's torn body, his brother's head hanging between his blood-streaked arms, a pool of blood beneath his feet. He saw his father standing on the balcony slumped against Hern Arbra, turned back to the platform where Tohre was holding the whip, tryingfuriously to get someone to finish the job. A movement on the platform drew his attention and he saw Conar trying desperately to raise his head, watched the head loll to one side. It was all he could stand. Slowly, hesitantly, Brelan Saur clapped once. Twice. Three times in counter-movement to the other clapping. He saw Legion grimly smile for the first time in more than a week as he met Brelan's gaze. He looked at Sentian, saw understanding. Glanced at Thom, who nodded. He clapped again and then again, joining now in the rhythm where before he had added counterstrike to the clapping. He saw childhood friends staring back at him—Storm Jale, Marsh Edan, Ward Summerall, Lin Dixon, Roy Matheny—and the men smiled. Then his lips formed the word the crowd was saying. "Conar," he whispered at first. Then louder, then louder still, until his voice was as strong and as passionate as those around him. "Conar!" "Cowards!" Kaileel shouted, his words drowned out by the crowd. He looked at Conar and a deep, abiding insanity gripped him like the steel talons of a nightmare creature. Conar was groaning, whimpering softly as he hung loosely from the beam. His mind was swirling in and out of consciousness. He could not hear the crowd's litany. He could not see Legion's tearful face smiling sadly at him. He was rapidly losing his touch with reality. Life had become one long searing pain, torching his flesh, ripping the flesh from him, stripping his body bare, crippling him, tearing him apart. From out of the depths of his consciousness, a name was forcing its way through his soul. He'd tried to latch onto it before now, but it kept flitting away as his body burned in this hell. He had even ceased to pray for death because he knew it would soon take him. He could feel it coming, calling to him, waiting. His blood was flowing like water down his legs, his life draining away. Intuitively, he knew his mortal body could not take any more and felt his strength and stamina giving way to a blissful oblivion that called to him with open arms. He closed his eyes and waited for death to claim him. "You are all cowards!" Kaileel shouted. Kaileel rushed toward Legion, shoved him as hard as he could, laughing hysterically when Legion plummeted from the platform, knocking over three men in his fall. Before anyone could stop him, the High Priest shot the whip forward with a stinging, retaliatory slap that was twice as strong and twice as terrible as any blow Bent had given. It connected hard with Conar's flesh, dragged down the torn and bleeding mass, tore open his back in a gash that split before the horrified eyes of those watching. "God!" Conar screamed, his head going back, his eyes bulging in their sockets. Unable to help, those assembled watched with stunned disbelief as Conar's body quivered, from the limp, sweat-soaked hair to the bare toes that did not touch the wooden platform. The force of his convulsions had started the post moving, the beam wobbling in its socket. The whipping post seemed to throb as it shook from top to foundation with Conar's violent convulsions. Before Conar could bury his face into the post to choke off the scream tearing through the air, Tohre aimed the whip at his head and caught him on his left cheek. Two of the barbs gouged twin four-inch-long gashes from the inside corner of his left eye to just below his left earlobe. Crimson strips of skin flew into the air and blood spurted, splattering Tohre's grinning face. An unearthly, piercing, bloodcurdling shriek of agony erupted from Conar's mouth like a putrefying sore. Urine flooded his already stained breeches and puddled at the base of the beam. The scream began again of its own accord,

louder, more wavering, and the beam began to shake faster. Fast on the heels of that scream came another, sliding upward nearly an octave. Then another and another and another until the last howl died into a jumble of gibberish, half-phrases and whimpers and pleas. "Scream you bastard!" Kaileel taunted. "I want to hear you scream!" He hefted the whip and made to strike out once more. Brelan spat out a filthy curse. He dove for the edge of the platform, scooting under the railing and rolling on the wooden planking. He came to his feet just as Tohre started to hit Conar. "No!" Brelan screamed and reached for the whip as it sliced backward over Tohre's shoulder. The leather slid through his hands, opened a long cut in his palm, then slammed into Conar's back, narrowly missing Brelan's face as it shot forward. Luckily, Saur careened out of the way and caught the rawhide before it could be snapped back. He jerked the whip from Tohre's hands, rushed forward, and sent Tohre crashing into the railing. Wood cracked, but the railing held. Tohre's body bent backward over the top. As hard as he could, Saur threw the whip into the crowd. "You'll hurt my brother no more!" A middle aged woman snatched up the whip as it landed, then hid it under the billowing flare of her shawl. Before anyone could stop her, she pushed her way through the crowd and disappeared. Legion climbed the platform. His mouth was a white line of horror as he looked at the horrible gashes down Conar's face. He turned to Brelan. Saur rushed to their brother's side. When he saw the same carnage, he lost control and took long strides to Tohre. The priest backed away from Brelan's rage. "You spiteful bastard! You didn't need to do that to him!" "You have no love for him!" Kaileel hissed. "What do you care what happens to him?" He knew Saur would not dare lay hands on him for fear of what might happen to Conar. "Because he is blood of my blood!" Tohre made plans how to best hurt this man who had dared to interfere. He would see him in a living hell for this. "The punishment must be fulfilled!" Tohre railed, backing further away from the menace that was Brelan Saur. "He has to be branded!" "You'll kill him!" Legion snarled. "They didn't order his death!" "He has to be branded the traitor he is! That is Tribunal law!" Conar was semi-conscious, mumbling incoherent sentences. Sweat dripped into his eyes and stung him. He blinked. Blood cascaded down his brutalized cheek. He smiled. His life was ebbing away. He chuckled softly. It would soon be over. Legion saw the will-'o-the-wisp smile on Conar's scarred face. "He's out of his mind with pain, Brelan." Brelan shoved Tohre toward the steps. "Get off!" he bellowed, blocking the man's attempt to once more position himself in front of Conar, the better to see the young man's agony. "It is my official right—" Brelan grabbed the priest by the collar and threw him. The crowd parted as Tohre came tumbling down the steps to land in a heap. When he tried to rise, several burly men rushed forward and hemmed him in. "Stay where you are, priest," one said, "or you'll never walk again!" "Brelan, he is hurt bad," Legion called. "If they brand him–" "I will be damned if I'll let them brand my brother!" Brelan hissed.

Conar's eyes suddenly focused, lost the glaze of madness that had been there moments before. The name was still trying to find its way out of his depths, but like a skipping butterfly, it floated just outside his rational thought, hovering in the darkness waiting to claim him. He felt, rather than saw, Legion lean down to speak to him. He felt intense heat behind him and knew what was to come. He whimpered with a fear he couldn't control and tried to turn his head to look at his eldest brother. Legion's heart lurched painfully at the sight of his brother. Yet he saw in Conar's eyes a faint glimmer of love and recognition. "Don't let them burn me, Legion," came the ragged request. Brelan shuddered. "We won't, little brother," he swore through clenched teeth. "He must be branded!" Tohre shouted. "No!" the crowd roared. Legion lay a trembling hand on Conar's head, wincing at the sheen of sweat saturating his hair. "We'll get you down, Coni." Brelan saw instant terror pass over Conar's face and started to speak, but Legion had already lifted one of their brother's arms to try to unhook him. The pain! Oh, sweet Merciful Alel, the agony of it! Conar screeched like a banshee. Legion jumped back, the color fleeing his normally ruddy complexion. "For the love of the gods, don't!" Sentian Heil shouted as he lunged for the platform, shoving people out of his way. The name was rolling faster and faster up Conar's throat. The pull on his shredded muscles was an excruciating agony that shot through every inch of his body. The name was almost to his lips now. Legion again reached for the chain, intent only on relieving the godawful pressure stretching his brother's body. "Don't touch him!" Brelan bellowed and shoved Legion aside. As Conar's body sagged down the post, nothing could have prepared him for the pain. No word could describe its intensity. He clawed at the beam, dug in his nails until they pulled free of his flesh. He gouged a large section out of the wood with enough force to pull one of his wrists free of an iron manacle. His entire body convulsed in one massive spasm as the searing heat registered from shoulder to hip to thigh. He shuddered, lurched sideways, his right wrist still held by its manacle as he swung into Brelan's suddenly upheld arms, his face to the crowd now, his eyes like that of a trapped animal. The people gasped, seeing the horror of what Tohre had done to Conar's face. A loud moan came in a wave from the crowd and people began dropping to their knees. They covered their faces to blot out the sight. The name came rushing out of Conar with a violence unlike anything nameable in humankind. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a bellow of agony. It was one long, stabbing shrill of release that poured from him in echoing waves. "Lizaaaaa!"

Chapter 4

Liza stirred in her drug-induced sleep. Her body lay in a fetal position, her hands clutched around her pillow. She was dreaming, dreaming of an approaching storm. Off in the distance, thunder started rolling across the mountain range, lightning forking viciously down from an angry gray sky. Silver and black streaks clouded the midday sun, swirled about it, hiding it. The air grew cold, the haze thick and vaporous. Fitfully, she turned onto her stomach, her arms outstretched above her head, her forehead pressed tightly against the wooden headboard. She was running down a long dark tunnel filled with the gathering clouds. They swooped away from her feet as she ran and closed in behind her as she passed. She could hear the thunder booming, magnified all around her. The white-hot flashes of lightning bounced from one side of the tunnel to the other in front of her, crackled down the walls, spread across the ceiling like a million fiery, slithering vipers. Her name was being called from the very end of the tunnel and she was desperate to get to the source before the storm erupted. Somewhere ahead, Conar was waiting, calling to her, needing her. She had to reach him before the storm destroyed them both. She took a deep, shuddering breath, grimaced as though in great pain, and then started to run toward his voice. But something was wrong with her feet. They were not moving as fast as before. Something was pulling at them, trying to make her fall. She looked down. The quivering, pulsing tunnel floor had turned to the white and shriveled color of long-dead flesh, cracked and foul-smelling. She tried to pull her feet out of the slimy floor only to find a withered, dead hand clawing its way up her leg. She cringed away from the questing hand, desperately trying to pull free, but the harder she pulled, the more she sank into the flesh of the tunnel. "Conar!" she screamed, but her voice echoed back in a grotesque version of her own name, a screech that called for Liza . She felt herself sinking deeper, felt clammy hands snaking up her thighs, other clammy hands reaching for her arms and waist, trying to pull her down into the pit. She called to Conar, but there was no answer. Suddenly the ice-cold hands were gone and she felt fire licking around her as the tunnel began to glow and crack open from its own self-generated heat. Pieces of the tunnel began to fall away. Blood ran in thin streams down the criss-crossed sections of granite. She felt the flesh on her arms and legs blistering from the fire's intensity and her left cheek began to sting. She heard her name called again, but the voice was weaker, less distinct. "Conar!" she screamed, her body trembling so violently the bed began to vibrate, the legs actually leaving the floor. *** Gezelle sat by the window watching her mistress toss and turn. Damp tendrils of hair curled around Liza's pale temples. She moaned as though in terrible, unearthly pain. Not even the ice-cold compresses Gezelle had used to wipe away her sweat had cooled Liza's fevered flesh. The servant wondered if the drug Healer Cayn had given her mistress to keep her sedated during Conar's ordeal had been too strong. Liza had fought Brelan and her brother Grice, had tried to keep them from giving the potion to her, but in the end, with Legion's help, Brelan had managed to pour a small amount of the purple liquid down Liza's throat. "Damn you," the distressed woman had shouted as her eyes began to close. "Damn you all to hell!" Another scream came from the Tribunal Square. Gezelle put trembling hands over her ears. She could not bear to hear the man she loved cry out in pain. Conar's pain cut as deeply into her soul as it did his wife's.

Liza's hands clawed at the oaken headboard, dragging her nails into the wood, scoring the finish. Gezelle's eyes widened in shock. Where had such strength come from? The entire bed trembled, the four posts bouncing as though with a life of their own. *** "Conar!" Liza screamed. "I am here! Here I am! Come for me!" Only the crackling fire answered. Backing away from the hottest part of the flames surrounding her, Liza felt her right shoulder touch the tunnel's hot wall. Searing pain burned its way down her side, her hip and spread along her thigh. "God!" she shrieked, her lips pulled back in snarling rage. *** Another scream vibrated from the Square and Liza's name was called in an eerie, wavering howl. "Merciful Alel!" Gezelle shouted to the heavens, falling to her knees. She covered her face and rocked on her heels. "Make them stop hurting him! Please make them stop before they kill him!" As though in answer, loud booming thunder echoed over the mountain and lightning flashed through the air above Mount Serenia. As the thunder's roll died away, a sound so unearthly, so animalistic, shot through the still air that the very walls of the keep trembled with terror. From the Tribunal Square, Conar's last, agonized cry came flooding into Liza's chambers. Liza sat bolt upright in the bed. "Conar! Don't leave me!" Gezelle stared at her. Liza's face had gone chalk-white. A thin trickle of blood oozed from her left nostril. Her left cheek was bright red and her forehead was bruised from the hard contact with the headboard. Her nails had been sheared off in her attack on the wood, while her body was slick with sweat. "Milady?" Gezelle whispered, advancing on the bed with terrified eyes. "Are you all right?" When the wails, the groans of despair and sorrow, began in the Square, when the lightning forked over the keep, when black shadows swept down from the heavens and icy torrents of winter rain began to fall, an answering scream was ripped from Anya Elizabeth McGregor's constricted throat… "Conarrrr!"

Chapter 5 They took him down from the whipping post—Sentian and Thom and Brelan and Legion. They would have carried him into the keep, but a score of Temple and Tribunal Guards blocked their path at the foot of the platform and would not let them pass. Legion glared at Kaileel Tohre. "I will take my brother home!" "He has no home, Lord Legion," Tohre said smugly. "He will be remanded to the Tribunal infirmary." "He may be dying! If that is true, he will cease his life where it began! We'll take him to Ivor, then!" "Aye!" a dozen voices agreed as lightning zigged across the heaving skies. "Ivor!" The guards kept their places, their hands clasped over their sword hilts. To a man, their eyes were dangerous in their stony faces, and when a litter was brought through the crowd to carry the prisoner to the Tribunal Complex, the

guards would not let it pass until Tohre gave permission. "There is no question of allowing him into the keep, A'Lex," Tohre stated. "He has no place there, and he will not be allowed to leave Boreas until he is ready to be sent into exile." Healer Cayn pushed his way through the cordon of guards and was not intimidated when one beefy Tribunal soldier reached out to stop him. "Touch me," Cayn hissed like an enraged wasp, "and I swear before the gods I will put a curse on you, and your pecker will shrivel up and fall off!" The man jumped, drawing back his hand. His face turned red, but he noticed no snickers among his troop nor among those of the Temple guards. Healer Cayn was infamous for his curses. Whether they worked was irrelevant. People believed they did. "Cayn," Legion began, "tell these fools to let us take Coni into your infirmary!" "If he is hurt as badly as I suspect, I will not allow you to argue over where he is to be taken!" Cayn shouted. "Back off, Legion. Let Sentian and Thom lay him on the stretcher! The sooner we can get him into the infirmary, the sooner I can begin to help him!" "Youare not allowed in the Tribunal infirmary!" Tohre snarled. Cayn put his nose to Tohre's. "Try and stop me, you pompous libertine!" Hern Arbra's massive build shouldered through the guards. "There won't be a man loyal to either the Temple or Tribunal left standing in this courtyard if you try to keep Cayn from helping the boy!" He pushed forward the men carrying the stretcher. "Take him. Now!" Sentian and Thom didn't question the Master-at-Arms, but gently eased Conar to the edge of the canvas-covered litter and rolled him as tenderly as possible until he lay on his stomach. Cayn's knees went weak when he saw the carnage on Conar's back. He looked slowly to Tohre with murder in his eyes. "By all that is holy, youwill pay for this!" Ignoring Cayn, Kaileel flung a hand to the litter-bearers. "Get him inside!" People stepped out of the way as the litter-bearers moved through the throng. The crowd wept bitter tears at the up-close view of Conar's body. Women turned away in horror, buried their faces in their husbands' shoulders, their friends' arms. Men blanched, groaned at the sight of the lacerated, bleeding flesh. Children whimpered with fear. Kaileel paraded behind the stretcher, his smug vengeance tight on his face as he disdainfully swept his gaze over the crowd. Cayn followed close on the High Priest's heels. Both Legion and Brelan fell in behind, but were stopped from going inside the Tribunal Complex. "I want to be with my brother!" Legion yelled, but guards barred his way up the steps. "I'll see to him, Legion!" Cayn called over his shoulder. "Leave off for now!" The procession disappeared through the opened doorway and the black portals closed with a heavy thud of finality that raised the hair on Legion's arms. "Don't let him die," A'Lex prayed. "Please, Alel. Don't let my brother die." Rain poured into his face, yet he hardly noticed. *** Once inside the marbled walls of the Tribunal infirmary, Cayn was stopped by one of the Tribunal's physicians. "Before you enter the dispensary, you must cleanse your hands. We don't want him to become infected by our touch." Cayn could not protest. "No, we don't." The physician held out his hand. "Come this way, please." He led Cayn to a side room where water and disinfectant was stored. Kaileel snorted. He glanced at Tolkan Coure, standing just inside the infirmary.

"You have exactly three minutes, Tohre," the Arch-Prelate warned. "I will require no more." Bowing his head to the High Priest, Tolkan sauntered toward the room where Cayn had gone to wash his hands. He put his hand on the healer's shoulder and asked Cayn if they could pray together for Conar's recovery. "I don't have time to—" "To ask Alel to bless him, Cayn?" Tolkan smiled sadly. "It will take only a moment or two." "A moment or two we may not have!" Cayn retorted as he dried his hands. "I rarely beg a man for anything," Tolkan sighed, "but I care deeply for our young Prince. Can you not help me save him?" Hatred filled Cayn's face. "If it weren't for you and Tohre, he wouldn't need saving!" When he started to go, Tolkan stepped in his way. "Whether you believe me, Cayn, I do have feelings for the boy." Cayn's lip curled. "Oh, I have no doubt that you do!" He shouldered aside the Arch-Prelate and stalked from the room. Tolkan's face moved into a satisfied smile. "That should have been time enough, don't you think, Beryl?" The Tribunal physician finished drying his hands and neatly folded the towel on the wash basin. "I believe so, Your Holiness." Cayn stood to the side of the low table on which Conar had been placed. Where to begin, he thought with dismay? The flesh on the boy's back hung in shreds in several places. Blood ran freely over his sides and soaked the stainless steel table. The twin gashes on his left cheek gaped open, muscle and bone showing through. Wood splinters were driven into the tips of his fingers where once the fingernails had grown. "We should clean away this blood," the Tribunal physician said as he came to stand beside Cayn. "Then we can see how much damage has been done." Cayn looked into the man's clinical face. "I can see how much damage was done! He needs something to keep him from contracting blood poisoning." The physician clapped his hands at his assistant. Cayn looked away from the man's emotionless face, his attention caught by a feeble movement in one of Conar's hands. He thought the boy was unconscious, had prayed that he was, but it was not to be. He saw the prince's lids open and heard a soft whimper escape the bloodied lips. "You'll be all right, son," Cayn said, taking Conar's left hand. Conar gasped, his eyelids fluttering rapidly and then the wounded blue orbs rolled back into his head. Cayn eased Conar's hand back to the table, sensing his touching of the ravaged fingertips had caused the reaction, but a coral shadow in the center of the Prince's palm caught and held his attention. He gently opened Conar's hand and stared. "What the hell is this?" he snarled, turning his glower to the Tribunal physician. *** Legion paced from one side of the Tribunal's front to the other, stopping occasionally to stare up at the closed doors, willing Cayn to appear with news. His face was livid with rage, pinched with fear. His long strides were heavy and erratic, his heartbeat, the same. Sentian and Hern leaned against the marble columns that held up the canopy over the walkway. They were worried, too, but no emotion showed on their faces. The only sign of their fear was the rigid set of their shoulders. Marsh, Thom and Storm, Ward, Lin, Wesley and Belvoir sat together on the bottom steps of the Temple. No conversation passed between the seven. They kept watch on the double doors as they, too, waited for word.

Brelan Saur stood under the cover of the canopy. If he felt anything, it was not evident in the way he answered Legion's anxious questions. He appeared calm, his face expressionless. He neither changed the tone nor inflection of his voice, and he did not once look toward the doorway until the heavy shriek of wood instantly brought his attention to the man who came out. Legion's breathing stopped; his heart ceased to beat. He could not have moved if his life depended upon it. Passing a line of heavily armed Tribunal guards, Cayn descended the Tribunal steps. Legion saw nothing registering on Cayn's face and grew instantly alarmed. Thom, Storm and the others came to their feet. With unhurried steps, they joined Legion and Brelan at the base of the Tribunal portico, their attention centered entirely on Healer Cayn. "Cayn?" Legion forced himself to say. Cayn shook his head. "We lost him, Legion." There was heavy grief in the man's thick voice. "We did everything we could, but his heart gave out." "No!" Sentian shouted. "That can't be!" Hern stopped him from storming the steps of the Tribunal Hall. "There's nothing we can do, now, Heil," he said, his voice breaking. "Let me go!" Sentian screamed. "He needs me, damn you!" He struggled against Hern's fierce grip. He jerked his head toward the Tribunal Hall. "Let me go, Hern! I promised her I'd take care of him!" "There's nothing we can do for him, now," Hern told him. "He's gone." "No!" Sentian bellowed, sagging against Hern. Legion stared at Cayn. His world had come to an immediate halt and he had trouble finding his voice. "Did he…was he…" He bit back the tears. "Was he aware of what was happening?" "Was he conscious?" Thom asked. "Did he feel anything? Did he know you were there with him?" Cayn shook his head. "He wasn't awake for more than a second." "Did he say anything?" Legion sobbed. "Nothing." "Will they let us see him?" Lin asked. "He wouldn't have wanted that." Cayn rubbed away his own tears. "The things they did to him…inhuman. He would want you to remember him as he was, not as those bastards made him." "Who'll prepare him for burial?" Sentian cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Those sons-of-bitches? I'll be damned if I'll let them put their filthy hands on him again!" "They won't bury him, Heil," Brelan said even though he didn't turn. "What are you talking about?" Sentian gasped, pushing away from Hern. "They have to—" "He'll be taken out to sea." Hern laid a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "Traitors can't be buried on Serenian soil according to law." "He was no traitor!" Sentian shouted. "He was branded a traitor and that is what they will call him," Legion whispered. "Aye, they branded him all right!" Cayn snarled. "Those bastards wanted him never to forget it, either. Even his hands were branded!" Brelan turned around. "What kind of brand?"

"In his palms. Fresh burns in the shape of a triangle with—" "Two wavering lines running across the apex," Brelan finished. "You've seen those kind of marks before?" Cayn asked, shuddering at his memory. Brelan looked away from the man and his voice was toneless. "That would explain why he couldn't use his powers this morning." "What are you talking about?" Cayn asked. Brelan looked at Legion, although it was as if he was speaking to himself. "The walls of the entire Tribunal Complex are lined with iron plate that is inscribed with ancient runes put there to keep any sorcery from working inside. It's the same way, they say, inside the keep at World's End. If Conar had tried to utilize the power Liza says he possessed, it wouldn't have worked. Just as her powers were no good in trying to reach him. But once in the sunlight, he could have drawn help from Alel. The Domination put those brands in his palms to keep him from doing that. The brands are magic symbols, runes to negate the power within his hands." "How do you know about such things?" Cayn asked. Brelan flinched. He seemed to remember where he was and who he was with. A dull flush spread over his face. "When you travel as much as I, you learn a lot of useless information." Hern carefully watched Saur. When Brelan looked his way, Hern glared at him with mistrust. Legion had not been listening. He felt numb from his lips to his toes. He knew he was crying, but it didn't matter. He wanted to be alone, but couldn't seem to move. With detachment, he looked about and saw little of the courtyard, the Temple, or the Tribunal portico. He whimpered. "Legion?" Cayn put his arm around the big man. "We need to tell your father." Legion lifted his head, no real understanding in his face. Cayn looked at Brelan. "Will you go with us?" Brelan let out a heavy sigh. "Aye." His attention was caught by the arrival of a warrior on horseback and realized it was Andre Belvoir. Idly, he wondered why the man was there. Hern caught up with Brelan as he fell in beside Legion and Cayn heading toward the palace. "I'd like a word with you, Lord Saur," Hern said in a gruff, no-nonsense voice as he reached out a heavy hand. Brelan felt as though a clamp had been applied to his shoulder. He turned to face the old soldier and raised one dark brow. "Who is she?" Hern asked without preamble. "Who is who?" "Your lady, Saur," Hern answered, aware that Sentian stood beside them. "I don't know who you mean." Wariness filled Brelan Saur's brown eyes, belligerence lined his handsome face, an ugly turn came to his lips. "Don't play games, Lord Brelan," Sentian told him. "I have no idea what you're talking about!" "We're talking about your lady!" Hern snapped. "The lady you are Sentinel to!" If Brelan was taken aback by Hern's statement, he didn't show it. "That's not important. What matters is Liza." He let his gaze go back to Sentian. "I take it you are her Sentinel." "I am and proud to be."

Saur looked at Belvoir as that warrior joined them. "Medea's?" At Andre Belvoir's quick nod, Brelan seemed to relax. "Then we all four know Liza is our main concern." There was no need to ask Hern; he would have been Queen Moira's man. Hern clenched his fist and held it, palm down, toward Brelan. "To serve and protect her and hers." Sentian's fist came up in the same way. The thumb of his right hand touched the little finger of Hern's. "To guard and defend her against all evil." Belvoir thrust forward his own beefy paw and connected with Sentian's. "To comfort and support her in times of need." Brelan didn't hesitate. His fist wedged between Hern's and Sentian's. "To honor and obey her even until the last breath," the four men said in unison. They understood one another perfectly.

Chapter 6 "How is she?" Legion asked as Brelan closed the door of Liza's room. Brelan's face was tired, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. "She's sitting by the window just staring out. I can't get her to even talk to me, much less discuss Conar." A'Lex raked his fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair. "I know. I tried, too." "How's Papa?" "Still asleep. In a way, I thank the gods he was so weak that morn and passed out before Tohre gave Coni the last hit. He didn't see what the lash did to Conar's face. When he woke and learned Coni had not survived…" Brelan held up a hand; he had heard the ungodly scream of grief with which their father had rent the air. It had taken Hern and Cayn to force the king to bed and Legion to make him take the laudanum that had kept him in a fog since Conar's death. "I wish things had turned out differently." Saur stared at the frieze along the ceiling. "I wish my last words to him had been more of a comfort." "Did you say something in the Interrogation Facility that has you feeling guilty now?" "It was what I didn't say. I told him everyone was behind him; that no one thought him guilty, that all of you were praying for him." He lowered his head. "But never told him I believed he was innocent of what happened to Papa." Legion turned a stunned face to his younger brother. "Have you suddenly developed feelings for him now that he's no longer a threat to you?" "I didn't wish the man dead," Brelan growled. "For her sake, I wish he were still here. She needs him now more than ever. Someone told her what I said to Conar when I handed Nadia over to him. She was…" Grief filled Brelan's voice. "She was deeply hurt." "So was he. Wasn't that your intent?" Brelan flinched. "But I didn't mean to hurt Elizabeth."

"No, you meant to hurt your brother, and you did." "No one will ever hurt him again," came Sentian's low voice from behind them. They turned toward the former Elite. "What's the matter?" Legion asked. "I came to see my lady," Sentian answered, putting his hand on the knob to Liza's door. "You can't go in," Legion said. "She called for me," Sentian said, his chin in the air. "She didn't do any such—" Brelan laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, hushing him. "Go in, Heil. She needs you." Legion could only stare. His face told of his confusion. When he swung his eyes to Brelan, he saw the man grimly smiling. "I'll tell you about it one day," was the simple answer. "What's wrong with now?" Legion snapped. "Because we have things to attend to that are more important." Brelan started for the stairs. "There's nothing more important to me than knowing what possible reason Sentian Heil could have for seeing Liza. She didn't call for him." "He wouldn't have come to her if she hadn't." "She hasn't left the room, hasn't opened her mouth in two days! How the hell could she—" "In less than two hours, we will be in that courtyard watching our kin being taken away. That we be there is more important. That we keep Elizabeth from being there is even more important. She doesn't need to see his coffin, or those other six being loaded onto theSerenian Star ." He took Legion's shoulder in a firm clasp. "Find someone to stand guard outside her door. Make sure he understands she is not to leave her room until the ship is no longer visible on the horizon." "And where the hell will you be?" "Papa shouldn't be there, either. I'll ask Hern to keep him from going." Legion shook his head. "We might be able to keep Liza away, but you'll never stop Papa." "I'm damned sure going to try!" Legion fell into step beside him. They began their descent down the stairs, but suddenly stopped, their faces shocked and blanched white. "It's gone," Legion whispered. Brelan looked hard at the lighter patch of wall where once the portrait of Conar McGregor had hung along the stairway side by side with his twin brother's, linked together by a gold chain to signify the dual birth. "Damn them," Legion spat. "Why?" Brelan sighed. "Because Papa disinherited him." Legion slid down the wall, put his hands over his face. His shoulders began to shake. Sitting beside his brother, Brelan put his arm around Legion. "You loved him very much." Legion's tear-ravaged face lifted. "He was more than my brother! He was my best friend!"

"I know." Brelan laid his head against his brother's. "And I know I'm a poor substitute, but if you'll let me, I'll try to fill the void." "I'm glad you're home," Legion whispered. "The family needs you, Bre." A little smile formed on Brelan's face. "It's funny. Even though I was raised here, I've never considered Boreas Keep my home. It was always Conar's home." He looked at the section of bare wall. "Until now." *** They were all there. Legion, Brelan, Teal du Mer, Sentian, Thom, Marsh, Storm and Hern. Members of the now-disbanded Elite like Ward, Drummond, Lin, and Wesley had gathered, as well as Roy Matheny, now of the Palace Guard. They talked in low voices, their nerves stretched taut. Occasionally one of them cast a look toward the Tribunal Hall, but the doors, although open, were heavily guarded. The guards stood across the front of the portico, blocking any vision of what was going on inside. The men watched as, one by one, a silent, respectful crowd began to form along the Tribunal Square and down past the cobblestone roadway leading to the docks. It had been three days since the deaths in the courtyard. Three days of stunned emotions and little talk. As was custom and law, men executed under the edicts of treason or sedition were not allowed burial in their home soil since they had given up that right with their treachery. Seven rough-hewn caskets had been carried into the Tribunal's side door earlier that morning and the ship that would take those caskets out to sea for an unhallowed, unmarked burial, lay anchored in the harbor. Its black sails, the trademark of a prison transport ship, snapped sharply in the breeze. Standing on deck was its borrowed captain, Holm Van du Lar, and his eyes were flint-hard and angry; his mouth set in a prim line of grief. "Are Grice and Chand with her?" Teal asked Brelan. The gypsy's normally laughing face was filled with lines of intense guilt. "They were, but I think Chand intends to be here," Brelan answered. "I heard they went before the Tribunal to ask for Conar's body," Thom said. A slight shudder went through the big man. He ducked his huge head. "I guess it didn't do any good." Brelan sighed. "They wanted to take him for burial in Oceania, but the Tribunal denied the request." He wondered why that piece of news hit him like a rock in the pit of his gut. His brother's death was beginning to bother him more than he ever thought possible. "They are making an example of him, even in death," Lin snarled. "What harm would there have been in allowing them to take His Grace to Oceania?" "They mean to deny him peace in the afterlife as they denied him peace in this life," Hern said with a harsh grating in his voice. "Each of us knows who's behind this." "Prove it," Marsh remarked. "One day, I will." Coming to stand on the stone steps of the keep proper, Grice and Chand Wynth looked out over the crowd. Both men were amazed so many people had arrived in such a short amount of time. "He was loved," Chand said quietly. "So it would seem," his brother answered. Unable to keep King Gerren away from the courtyard, Cayn and his assistant had simply given in to what was destined. They accompanied their King to the Temple where he spent most of the afternoon praying to a god he thought had deserted his family. As the three men emerged from the Temple, they saw riders approaching and recognized the King's youngest legal sons, Coron and Dyllon. "I sent for them," Cayn answered the King's silent question.

"Thank you," Gerren told him. "I had forgotten to do so." Gezelle gently closed the keep's entry door behind her and went to stand behind Prince Chand. She smiled timidly as he turned. "You are well, mam'selle?" he asked, answering her soft smile. "Aye, thank you, Your Grace." She dipped her head, unable to look directly into his face. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Conar's oldest son, Wyn, stood beside her. She put her arm around the lanky young boy's waist and leaned against him. Chand was all too aware of Gezelle's presense. He ached to take the slim girl in his arms, and would have if his brother had not been there. Instead, he glanced at Wyn. "Take care of the lady." "They're coming," Grice said. The door to the Tribunal Hall opened and seven sextets of guards emerged, walking past the guards ranged along the portico. Each sextet carried a rough-hewn casket atop their shoulders. Behind them, Tolkan Coure, the Arch-Prelate and Tribunalist, and Kaileel Tohre, walked, their faces solemn. The High Priest and his master had expected no trouble from the crowd. No extra phalanx of men had been rallied. It was perhaps this very disdain for Conar's people's feelings that started the chant, or perhaps it was the black armbands worn around the upper arms of the last unit of pallbearers that caused it. Whatever the reason, a low mumble began, the words much like the soughing of trees in a light summer breeze. But as the last sextet cleared the Tribunal steps, the mumble grew more coherent, more cohesive, united, until, without exception, those gathered spoke the words in unison with clear, ringing pride. It was the ancient, time-honored, respectful words of passing spoken at every Serenian funereal since time began. "The gods bear you to Paradise, Warriors of the Wind!" Legion felt his throat close around the words. All around he heard people saying his brother's name in quiet, emotional tones. His chin trembled with the force of his emotions and he started down the steps. "Legion!" Brelan hissed. Legion ignored the warning as he made his way to the unit of men carrying his brother's body. Long, rage-filled strides stomped across the courtyard, crunched over the cobblestones as he shouldered everyone out of his path. His mouth was set in a thin line. Tears slithered down his flushed cheeks and he swiped at them with vicious passes of his hand. He was dimly aware of people looking at him with both respect and worry. He caught a glimpse of Dyllon's face, knew Coron must be there, too, but didn't break his stride. They couldn't help. No one could. He shrugged off a restraining hand, and wasn't surprised to hear Brelan's angry curse. He roughly brushed past Kaileel Tohre and reached out toward the last pallbearer. "Is that your Prince's coffin?" he shouted, jerking on the man's arm. Surprised, alarmed at the intensity of the Commander's face, the guard cast a frightened look toward Tohre. The man already knew he and the other five men would pay dearly for the small rebellion of black armbands they had sewn onto their tunics. Tohre would have their hides. "Is that my brother's coffin?" Legion shouted louder. "Aye, Commander." "Then put him down!" "Lord Legion—" "Put him down!" Legion yelled as loudly as he could. Everything in the courtyard went deadly still. A sudden violence seemed to have swept the air, lurking in wait for a spark to set it aflame. Legion trembled from it. He was barely aware that both Brelan and Teal du Mer now flanked him.

Kaileel Tohre felt Tolkan's eyes on him and looked to the old Prelate for guidance. It was obvious from the look on Coure's face that he had no intention of interfering. It would be up to Kaileel to handle the situation. He ran a quick tongue over his suddenly dry lips. He, too, could feel the tension. "What exactly is it that you want, Commander?" Tohre asked. He could actually see evil in Legion A'Lex's face. "I want to see my brother!" Legion growled. "You would not let us see him after you beat him to death. You wanted him dead and you killed him. You mean to take him from us forever, but we will see him now!" "Are you insinuating that an injustice was carried out?" "I am stating fact!" "I cannot allow the coffin to be opened. That is against Tribunal Law." Kaileel flung his hand at the guards. "Proceed." Brelan and Teal exchanged a look, then blocked the pallbearers' path, staring straight into the guards' worried eyes. "They aren't going anywhere until I see my brother!" Legion faced the crowd. "Are you with me?" "Aye!" The sound was deafening. Sentian and Hern reached the group of men clustered around Conar's coffin. Thom and Storm were only a few steps behind; Summerall, Matheny, Dixon, Collins, and Blackwell followed. The nine formed a tight flank around the front and left sides of the coffin. Gezelle felt Wyn's arm drop from around her waist as he ran down the steps. Reluctantly her feet took her toward the gathering. People moved out of her way as though she was one of the nobles and she lifted her head a little higher. By the time she reached the coffin, she could clearly hear Tohre's angry whisper. "Do you want a reprimand from the Tribunal, Commander?" "Tribunal reprimands don't mean a damned thing when they're handed out by crooked bastards like you!" Legion turned his hard gaze back to the guard. "If you don't put down that coffin, I swear before every man and woman present, I will slit your throat!" "There are four other McGregor men here who will gladly draw blood, too, if need be!" Prince Dyllon spat as he and Coron joined Brelan and Wyn. Seeing the determined glower on A'Lex's face, as well as the stony and equally vitriolic stares of those watching, Tohre looked to Tolkan. Tolkan shrugged. "I see no harm in it, Kaileel. Let them see their traitor." Legion started forward, but Brelan caught his arm. "Not here! Not now!" Saur warned. "This isn't the time." Kaileel could sense the ugliness brewing like an overheated pot. He ground his teeth and motioned the guards to set down the coffin. "If you must, then look until you have your fill! As for myself, I do not wish to ever again set eyes on that bastard!" "I am sure, if he could, my husband would voice the same sentiment about you!" a weak voice called from the keep's steps. "Oh, hell," Brelan sighed, his gaze on Liza being led by her brother to the place where every eye was centered. He had thought Legion had men guarding her. He should have known better. He groaned as he watched her struggling vainly to remain erect under Grice's comforting hold. The crowd drew in a collective breath as Liza's soft voice rang out. As she passed, they began to drop to their knees in love and respect, in sympathy with her grief. They tried to meet her tremulous smile as she looked at them, but could only bow their heads in acknowledgment of her courage. Legion's heart went out to her. She walked as though in her dotage, her shoulders bowed beneath the enormous weight of her sorrow. Dark smudges stained her cheeks and her long, black hair was pulled back so sharply, so

severely, her pale, wan face looked even more strained. Both of her arms were now being held firmly to steady her, Grice on her left, and Sadie MacCorkingdale on her right. Her shambling walk seemed to suggest that, without the hands on her, she would not have remained erect. Her bleak eyes finally swept over the last of those kneeling and settled on the rough coffin. It was her beacon in a world of turbulent feelings and drowning grief. She stumbled as she neared the coffin. Hern reached out a gentle hand to help steady her. "Milady, please don't…" "I will bid my beloved Conar farewell, Sir Hern." Easing her arms from the hands that held her, she stood straight and proud, waiting, expecting. She looked at Legion. Teal took Gezelle's arm as the servant girl came abreast of him. He pulled her gently against him. His gypsy intuition made him turn and he glanced at Chand Wynth and caught the flare of pain at the intimacy. He met Chand's gaze and nodded, understanding. Legion hunkered beside his brother's coffin and took hold of the lid. The new hinges didn't make a sound. The ripe smell of the rough cedar filled the air, and an undersmell of something more sinister, more mysterious, dark and foreboding, oily, eased out of the oblong box. As the lid was gently laid back on its hinges, more than one pair of eyes closed in deep regret, more than one head turned away in grief. Liza tried hard to keep her tremors from showing. It had not been that long ago since she had buried her child; now, she was being forced to say goodbye to her child's father. She grasped her hands together in front of her as she stared into the opened coffin. Legion dug his fingernails into his palms and, with an effort, kept the scream of hopelessness from leaving his dry mouth. He gazed at Conar, feeling a grief so great his entire insides quivered. Brelan looked quickly away after assuring himself it was Conar who lay within the confines of the coffin. His breath was too rapid, his heartbeat too erratic, his palms too wet for his liking. He truly could not understand why he felt such overpowering loss. The man inside the coffin, even though of his own flesh and blood, had meant little, if anything, to him during their lives. He was sorry Conar was dead, more for Elizabeth's sake than anyone's, but even that puzzled him. The way might well be open for him now to take her as his wife. Why should he feel as though that were a great betrayal of the first magnitude? The King looked at his beloved son and felt his heart dying. The terrible sense of loss he was enduring seemed to be draining the very life from his limbs. If only he had been able to save his son from the fury of the Tribunal's wrath, his mind screamed, Conar might still be alive. But inwardly, he knew the outcome would have been the same. His son's destiny had been set years before he had even been born, as was every man's. Teal du Mer had loved Conar as a brother for as long as he had been old enough to understand what brotherhood meant. They had played together as children, had gotten into mischief more times than Teal liked to remember. It had been Conar who had sought him out after Roget's arrest; Conar, who had held him as he cried out his anger and hurt when Roget had been shipped to the Labyrinth. And it had been Conar he betrayed not long ago. Teal dropped his head in shame. Sentian felt numb. His body was incapable of feeling the harsh winter air, the sting of the sea breeze. He didn't feel the vague warmth of the sun. There was grief, and a despair so deep it kept him rigidly still as he glanced into the coffin and then away. Hern, Thom and Storm stood staring into the coffin. Wes, Lin, and Roy had taken one look and turned, unable to hide the tangible sign of their sorrow. Neither Dyllon nor Coron nor Wyn were aware of anyone else around them. They weren't even aware of one another. They didn't hear the soft sobbing coming from the crowd; they didn't hear Legion's whispers as he spoke to Liza. Their undivided attentions were on Conar. Gezelle stood transfixed, staring with wide, hurt eyes at the man who lay before her. As Conar had done not so long ago when he gazed at his stillborn son in Oceania, Gezelle had to strain to not see his chest rising and falling as if he

slumbered. She imagined she saw a faint flutter under his unbleached cotton shirt. Her gaze roamed over his face, saw no flicker of eyelid, moved back to his chest, and held. There was no movement now, not even a hint. She looked back at his face with the long, angry red gashes along the left cheekbone and ear, and bit her lip to keep from screaming at the injustice. Blood seemed to ooze from those horrible gashes and his shirt was pink-tinted along the sides and shoulders. His hair was unwashed, and she wondered why they had not bathed him. Why let him spend eternity in bloodstained, torn clothing? She looked at the strong, capable hands crossed his chest and flinched at the begrimed fingers and torn away nails. Her face filled with pain and she turned her attention to the peaceful quiet of his ravaged face with its long sweep of thick tawny lashes, closed now forever, hiding the blue pride of his beautiful eyes, and she felt her knees give way. Had du Mer not been supporting her, she would have collapsed. "Take her back to the keep, Teal," Liza ordered. When Gezelle looked at her mistress, Liza smiled wanly. "Go. You do not need to see him leave us, 'Zelle." Chand could not bring himself to look into the coffin. He kept his attention on his sister. He didn't care for the pallor of her flesh. He caught his brother's eye and nodded toward her. Grice stepped closer. When Teal du Mer started to escort Gezelle away, Chand eased the girl out of the gypsy's arms and into his own. She turned, shocked, but he would not let go. He held her lightly against him and met his brother's annoyed grimace before leading her back to the keep. Liza waited until Legion stood and turned away from the coffin before she sank gracefully to her knees in the red dust, braced her hands on the sides of the wooden box, and bent over her husband. She reached out a trembling hand to ease away one stray lock of blond hair from his pale forehead. She cocked her head and wondered, as she had many before her, why she often felt the need to sweep back that recalcitrant lock of hair that persisted in finding its way over Conar's forehead. A brief, wavering smile touched her lips as she remembered his exasperated sigh when people had done just that. She swallowed hard to still the choking grief. No one would stroke away that silken lock of hair ever again. She took in every angle, every scar, every mole and imperfection, every freckle and crease in her husband's face. She branded them in her mind and heart. She saw no dirty flesh, no crusted blood, no limp and oily hair. What she saw was the glory of him that first day in the stable at the Hound and Stag. She could see him standing there, his grin cocky and sure, as he had faced three men intent on doing him harm. Her smile returned, quivered and then faded. A solitary tear fell onto his neck and she wiped it away with her fingertips, marveling at how warm the late afternoon sun had turned his still flesh. She trailed her fingers along his jaw, felt the bristles of beard, traced them across his lips. Easing herself up and over the coffin's side, she placed her lips first against his scarred cheek and then, gently, longingly, on the firm lips that would never seek hers again. "Sleep well, my love," she whispered to his dear face, her lips tingling with the touch of his as they always had, her tears falling so freely she could no longer clearly see his features. "We will be together again." Legion bent down and put his hand under her elbow. She looked into his crying face. "Bid your brother farewell, Legion," she told him and smiled, allowing him to lift her to her feet where she swayed against him for a moment. Liza looked at Brelan. "Will you say goodbye, too?" Brelan could do no more than nod. A muscle ground in his jaw as he watched Legion kneel and place an awkward kiss on Conar's dirt-streaked hair. "I love you, brat," Legion whispered, his lips trembling. Tears streaked down his cheeks, and before he could stop himself, he was sobbing wildly, his shoulders trembling with the force of his grief. "Ah, Conar!" he sobbed as he clutched the coffin's edge. "Conar!" Brelan would have gone to Legion's aid, but Liza put out a hand to stop him. She shook her head and looked away, giving Legion as much privacy as he could have at that moment. Sitting on his heels, Legion's sobs turned to keening. He rocked back and forth, his pain so intense no one could look at him. Over and over again, he repeated his brother's name, the single word a litany of grief and loss.

When she could no longer stand the heart-wrenching sound of Legion's sorrow, Liza put her hand on the warrior's shoulder. Without looking up at her, Legion covered her hand with his, held it for a moment, then ran the sleeve of his shirt under his nose. Grunting with the effort, he got to his feet and stood, head down, as Liza slipped her arm around his waist and leaned against him. Brelan watched Thom, Marsh, Sentian, Lin, Roy, and finally Storm as they, too, knelt beside the coffin and touched the hands that had once brought them all together. The only time he felt like running away was when he saw young Wyn, Conar's oldest son, step forward, tears cascading down his face, go to his knees beside the coffin, and put his trembling lips to his father's still mouth. "I love you, Papa," the boy wept, laying his cheek alongside his father's. "I'll miss you." He looked into that still face. "What will I do without you? Who will I talk to, Papa? Who'll race with me?" His voice broke. "Who will teach me? Papa, who will love me now?" Trembling with the force of his emotions, the boy pushed up from the ground and turned around, his expression lost and filled with confusion. His eyes locked with Liza's. "Why?" he asked in a pitifully small voice. "Why did they hurt him like that?" Liza opened her arms. The boy grabbed her to him like a long-lost treasure. "They'll not hurt him again, Wynland," Liza whispered brokenly. Brelan closed his eyes, unable to bear his nephew's pain-ravaged face that mirrored so closely his father's at that age. Dyllon and Coron came forward, their faces wracked with hurt. They bent over their brother in unison and laid trembling hands on his destroyed face. "Goodbye, big brother, " Coron said quietly and had to help Dyllon to his feet. The young man was sobbing so hysterically he could barely walk. Cayn touched the once-shiny blond hair and then caressed the prince's chin. "I brought you into this world, son; I only wish to the gods I could have kept you in it." His face twisted and he turned away, stumbled toward the keep, disappearing inside, wanting to put as much distance as possible between him and the courtyard. Hern Arbra, his craggy face blank, his eyes dry, knelt by the coffin and bowed his head. His lips moved in a quiet dialogue only the dead man could hear. He seemed to be explaining something that needed to be said. When he finished, he looked at Conar for a long, long time and then, after kissing his trembling fingertips, placed them gently to Conar's lips. "We'll meet again, brat. You can count on that," he said in a husky whisper. The old warrior trailed the back of his hand down Conar's still face. "I loved her, you see. With all my heart I loved her, even though she didn't belong to me, brat. I swore to her I'd see you to manhood and on the throne, and now when we meet up again, I'm gonna have to tell her why I let this happen." Tears slowly slid down Hern's weathered cheek, but he didn't seem to notice. "How am I gonna explain to her that I let them murder our boy? How can I face her, Coni?" The callused hand of the Master-of-Arms of Boreas Keep smoothed over Conar's forehead. "You need a haircut, brat," he said, his tremulous smile crooked. With his heart breaking, the warrior gently kissed the young man's cheek. "You be watching for me, now, you hear? It might not be long afore I'm up there tossing your tale about the clouds," he said with a hitching sob. Coming to his feet, he turned to Liza. "He was a good, decent man, Milady. He was my…" Whatever Hern was going to say, his sorrow would not allow. With tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, he turned, his shoulders shaking, and he strode a distance away from the others. From his place on the balcony, King Gerren watched Hern trembling. A part of him wanted to go down to the

courtyard and put his arms around his old friend. Though he could not hear the words Arbra had spoken to Conar, the king knew in his heart what the warrior had no doubt said. Looking to the heavens, he could almost feel the sadness and disappointment wafting down to him. "I allowed this to happen, Moira," he confessed to his long-gone wife. "I am to blame." Sinking to his knees, he wrapped his hands around the wrought-iron railing and pressed his forehead hard against the cold metal. "Why did I not put a stop to this? Why did I let them whip our son?" Shivering, Gerren gave in to his grief, letting the tears scald his flesh as he sobbed uncontrollably. Without realizing he was doing so, he began beating his head against the railing, not even feeling the flesh of his forehead when it broke and blood trickled from the gash. With his guilt spurring him on and his grief blinding him to all else, the king of Serenia clung to the rail like a lost child. His sobbing turned to low, trilling wails of despair then subsided to whimpers of defeat. "What did I let happen, Conar? What did I let happen?" Brelan tore his gaze from the balcony. He could feel the older man's guilt and knew he bore as much blame as did his father. He could not look at Liza when she glanced his way. Instead, he stared at the Temple, hating that vile place more than ever. When Brelan would not look at her, Liza turned to Teal. At first du Mer shook his head. His sorrow was a keen knife twisting in his guilt-ridden soul. He wished he had gone with Chand and Gezelle into the keep. "He loved you, Teal," Liza reminded him. "It will be a long time before he gets to tell you that himself." A choking sob tore through the gypsy and he buried his face in his hands. "I betrayed him!" "Go to him, Teal," Legion told him. "If you don't, you'll regret it." It was by far the hardest thing Teal du Mer had ever done. Saying goodbye to his only brother had not been as difficult as kissing Conar's cheek and bidding him farewell. It tore a hole through the man's heart and settled there with a deep pain. When he rose, his face was nearly unrecognizable. Brelan met Grice Wynth's gaze for only a fraction of a second before the eldest Oceanian Prince bent over Conar. Although he didn't say anything, Grice squeezed Conar's cold hands and then turned away, knowing Conar would have understood. Knowing he could delay his farewell no longer, Brelan bent over the coffin, and both surprising and shocking himself, brushed his lips against Conar's still forehead. He felt something turn in his gut and thought he would be sick at the touch of that still flesh. "The gods-be-damned, Conar," he said in a rush and before he knew what he was doing, he dropped to his knees. "For the love of the gods, Lord Saur," Tohre snapped. "Not you, too!" Brelan ignored the exasperated hiss and rested his forehead against the side of the coffin as others before him had done. "Lord Saur, I must insist…" "Go to hell, Tohre," Liza said with steely determination in her fragile voice. Tohre opened his mouth to speak, but every eye in the courtyard turned to him with murderous intent and he snapped his lips closed. "Conar, Conar, Conar," Brelan whispered, feeling moisture gathering in his eyes. "Who will I fight with now, little brother?" He looked at the dead man. With lips trembling and guilt flooding his heart, Saur clenched his teeth and refused to let the moan of anguish escape his closing throat. Inside, he was at war with himself. On one hand, he wanted to lift his brother from the coffin and hold him. On the other hand, he wanted to curse the stubborn man who

had dared to stand up to the Tribunal. Instead, he stood and found Grice smiling sadly at him. "You did what you had to do, Bre," Grice said softly. Brelan shook his head. "I should have told Papa long ago." "Told him what?" Brelan swiped angrily at the tears easing down his cheeks. "Iknew , Grice!" "I don't understand," Grice said, frowning. He laid a comforting hand on his friend's broad shoulder. "What is it you knew?" "What they had done to him when he was a boy. What they were still doing to him as a man," Brelan whispered. "I knew and I did nothing to stop it because I didn't care!" "By the gods, Brelan, no!" Grice said, shocked. "I wanted her. I wanted her and anything I could do to keep Coni out of her life, I did. Now look what my coveting your sister has wrought!" "If you are all through with your good-byes, the ship is ready to sail," Tolkan said, amused at the various displays of grief. He motioned for the lid to be closed. Brelan knocked away the hand of the guard who reached out to do the Prelate's bidding. "Get the hell away from my brother you bastard!" Grice put a calming hand on his friend's arm and when Brelan turned furious eyes to him, he gently told Saur to shut the lid himself. Brelan nodded curtly and began to close the lid. Then he stilled, looking closely at Conar's chest. He would have sworn on his love for Liza that the fabric of Conar's shirt lifted slightly. But there was no movement. He shuddered, believing himself seeing things. Tolkan drew in his breath, realizing what Saur must have thought he'd seen. With as calm a voice as he could muster, he spoke to Brelan. "For the love of Alel, Lord Saur, have you no pity? It is time this thing was past!" Brelan closed the lid and moved away from the coffin as though its nearness caused him physical pain. He looked at the Prelate. "What the hell wouldyou know about Alel's love?" Tolkan drew back from the fury on Saur's enraged face. He glanced at the guards. "Take up the coffin and—" "The hell they will!" an angry voice snarled. One look from Hern's stony face made the six pallbearer's hesitate. The guards watched uneasily as Thom, Storm, Sentian, Marsh and Hern moved into place around the coffin and then bent to lift the cedar box onto their shoulders. Wyn eased out of Liza's arms, pushed her gently into Legion's and then took his place between Hern and Sentian. He took one of the six wooden handles and braced his father's coffin on his shoulder. Legion looked at Liza. "I'll take you back to the keep, dearling." "I will see my husband on board," she said firmly and would have turned had Brelan not blocked her path. "Not this time, Elizabeth," Saur insisted and took her left hand as Legion took her right. "There is nothing to be done now but live." She looked at him for a long moment, searching his face, probing his soul. She saw his pain, felt his guilt and acknowledged his contrition. "He forgave you, Brelan," she said at last, in a voice soft and filled with love. "I know." ***

From the high battlements of Boreas Keep, Galen McGregor watched theSerenian Star's black sheeting fill with wind as the ebony ship moved into the harbor. He raised a goblet of wine to toast the ship and her cargo. "May the Wind be at your back," he said with a laugh. "So your journey to hell will be swift!" He wasn't even aware that he was crying as the ship slipped beyond the horizon and out of sight. *** Many hours later Saur wondered just how he had known his brother had forgiven him and why it made such a difference in his life.

Chapter 7 Legion held his hand out to his brother. "Have a safe trip." Brelan sighed. "Damned if I don't hate ships." A'Lex chuckled. "I'm not all that fond of them myself." Brelan grasped Legion's wrist. "Take care of yourself, A'Lex." He looked toward the keep. "Things will be tough from now on." A frown touched Legion's bearded face. "You may be right." He let go of Brelan's hand and folded his arms. "I'm glad you're taking her home. Serenia will mourn her going, but she'll be safe from Galen in Oceania." A hard look passed over Brelan's face. "She'd be safe from that bastard here." "I know she would." Legion glanced at the Oceanian vessel on which his heart would soon be sailing home. "What she needs is a lot of love and peace." "I'll see she gets it." Legion smiled. "It's funny. I never thought any of us boys were even remotely alike, but it seems you and me, Conar and Galen all had one thing in common. We all love Liza beyond measure." There was great sadness in the older man's expression. "Will you ask for her hand once you get back to Seadrift?" "Would it upset you if I did?" "Not if that's what she wants." "But you would take her to wife if you could," Brelan charged gently. A'Lex sighed heavily. "On his wedding day, when he thought he was marrying The Toad, Coni asked me to find Liza for him, and if I did, he would give me her hand in marriage. For one brief moment, I had hope." Brelan momentarily looked away from the pain he was seeing. "I know how you feel. It hurt me when she married him. And it hurt me when he came to Oceania to get her back." He laid a hand on Legion's shoulder. "Just as it hurts you for me to leave with her." "I only want what's best for her. If you are what she wants, I will support you. Maybe you can help her to get on with her life." "If she'll let me."

Legion saw something flit across Brelan's face. "How are you dealing with this, Bre?" "There might not have been any love lost between us, Legion, but I certainly didn't want what happened to him. He was my brother. The thought of them taking him out to sea and dumping him like so much refuse puts a black streak of fury clean through my soul." A muscle jumped in his cheek. "No man deserves such treatment. I was watching his face when they read the sentence. I thought I knew what was coming; he did, too. He truly didn't think they'd be so harsh." "None of us did." "But I think he knew when the sentence was read that he wouldn't survive. That's why he didn't want Elizabeth there to see him die." "If we did nothing else for him, at least we kept her away that day." Legion let out a long breath. "I wish to the gods I had kept my ass in the keep." "Then you wouldn't have saved him from the rest of the lashes Tohre meant to give him." "Lord Saur!" the Oceanian captain called from the bridge of theSeachance . "We're ready to sail, Milord!" "Sail close to the Wind, little brother," Legion said, bestowing upon him the ancient Oceanian blessing. "And watch over our lady." "With my dying breath." *** On the twenty-first day of January, less than a week after his twin was taken out to sea, in the year known as the Year of the Ill Wind, Galen Nicholai McGregor was officially named Prince Regent of the Serenian Empire. On the twenty-second day of January, he made a formal request of his father, the King. A request his king denied. On the twenty-third day of January, the Serenian Tribunal of Law issued an edict to their king. On the twenty-fourth day of January, King Gerren unwillingly granted his son's request. On the thirty-first day of January, an envoy was dispatched to Seadrift Keep, the capitol of Oceania. *** Brelan walked beside her, his hand clasped tightly around hers. The sweet ocean breeze was crisp, a bit too chill for a stroll along the beach, but the two were dressed warmly, their great capes pulled close. A stiff gust shifted against them and he felt her shiver so he pulled her close. Liza turned into the warmth of his strong arms and her head came to rest on his chest. "Feeling better now?" he asked, a worried frown easing its way over his handsome face. "Uh, huh," she mumbled against the wool of his cape. He took a deep breath and gazed out over the rolling gray-blue depths of the Oceanian Sea. "Are you too cold?" he inquired as he nestled her head in the palm of his right hand. "I'm fine, Bre," she said on a sigh. "Stop worrying about me." Brelan chuckled. "Who said I was worried?" She looked up at him. One fine black brow lifted. He smiled. "Do I sound worried, Milady?" The brow went higher. His smile turned into a sigh of surrender.

Ahead of them, they could see Grice waving and, for an instant, Brelan was transported back to a similar day when Grice had come to this very same spot looking for them. He shook his head to clear away the memory, but when he looked at Liza, her eyes told him her thoughts had gone back to that day as well. "He's always interrupting us, isn't he?" Saur asked in a voice, too quick and too glib to truly hide his thoughts. "Big brothers sometimes take their responsibilities too seriously. Conar used to tell me how Legion…" She stumbled to a halt and felt Brelan's arm tightened. It had been several weeks since she had last spoken of her dead husband. Saur felt a stab of pain shoot through him. Both their wounds were still so fresh and raw. He turned his attention to Grice, who joined them. "Couldn't whatever you want have waited?" Brelan snapped, even though there was a grim smile on his lips. Grice looked first at Brelan with a hard, tight gaze, then turned to his sister, who continued to stare at the sea. "We have visitors from Serenia, Anya Elizabeth," he said bitterly, watching Brelan flinch. "Mama says they were expected." "Messengers from the King," Liza answered, easing out of Brelan's arms. She still kept watch on the sea. "Aye, I've been expecting them." Grice could not keep the fury out of his tone. "If you like, I will send them back and you won't have to speak with them." She finally looked at her brother. "No." "Do you know why they are here?" Grice asked; she nodded. "And?" Her brother's voice was tight and waspish. Liza lowered her head. "They have come with a marriage proposal." "What?" Grice nearly deafened himself with his shout. "From whom?" Brelan's stomach tensed. He was almost sure it would be from Legion and he didn't know if Liza would turn it down or not. He hoped she would. He, himself, had been putting off asking her to marry him. Obviously, Legion didn't feel the same way. Brelan could understand the man's urgency. With her marriage to Conar annulled, Liza could legally accept either man since previously married women of royalty were no longer ruled under Tribunal law. But he wasn't prepared for Liza's answer. "Galen has asked his father for my hand." She didn't look at the two men. She didn't have to see their faces to know they were white with shock. "That isn't funny," Grice snarled. "No, Grice, it isn't. It wasn't meant to be." "Has the man lost what little reason he had?" Grice shouted. "Does he really think we would allow you to marry him after everything he did? By all that's holy, Anya! He kidnapped you!" "I am perfectly aware of that, Grice." Grice's face turned beet red. "I'll send those sons-of-bitches packing so fast they'll think—" "I am going to accept the proposal." "What?" both men shouted. Liza held up her hand, taking advantage of their speechlessness. "It is my decision to make. A formal request was sent last week and this week Galen's envoys are here to return me to Serenia. At the end of next week, I shall marry him quietly in the Wind Temple and—" "The hell you will!" Brelan hissed. He grabbed her arm in a steel-like grip. "Conar's been dead all of three weeks and with his body barely cold you plan on marrying that sorry bastard?"

Liza pried his fingers from her arm. "It is my decision," she repeated. "Don't question it." She turned to her brother. "Mama knows of my decision. She and Papa will abide by it." "I won't!" Grice shouted. "There are other eligible men who will rule their own kingdoms one day. Serenia is not our only ally! If you must be tied to a royal house, I can send envoys to Virago or Ionary. There's not a one of those men who would turn down an alliance between our two houses. Any one of them would be a hell of a lot more to your family's liking, and Conar's family's liking, than Galen McGregor! I can't believe you are truly considering such stupidity." "Nor can I!" Brelan answered. "You know what Galen is capable of doing! My god, Elizabeth—he may have had something to do with Conar's death! Didn't you think of that?" "If he did, Brelan, he will eventually pay dearly for it!" she snapped. "Why would you even think of doing such a thing?" Grice argued. "The man is…he's not even a…he's more of a… Hell!He's a pervert!" Liza shook her head. "It doesn't matter. He has asked for my hand and I have accepted." Grice glared at Brelan. "Damn it! Try to talk some sense into her!" "No!" Liza said. "I am doing what I want to do." Brelan wanted to hurt her as she was hurting him. "I guess being the Queen of Serenia means more to you than anything else, no matter whose whore you have to be to get it!" His face snapped sideways as her hand connected hard with his lean jaw. She shoved him. "Howdare you, Brelan Saur!" she shouted, her voice filled with hate. "How could you say such a thing to me?" Turning to face her, he saw the set of her mouth, the rage blazing on her face. "Leave us, Grice," she demanded, turning her fierce gaze on her brother. When he didn't move, she lashed out. " Now!" Grice stumbled away from her shove and looked at her as though he thought she had lost her senses. "Perhaps if you will just think about it…" "Tell Mama I will be in shortly!" Brelan was breathing hard and shallow, his face a livid bruise of palm-struck flesh and boiling anger. "I'll handle this, Grice. It's now just between me and her." Grice wanted to stay, to hear what the two would say to one another. If what it took to make Anya Elizabeth see reason was his hand to her backside, he would see it got done. If it was allowing Brelan Saur to do the hitting, he'd help hold her. He could see the intense way the two of them were glaring at one another like spitting cats. "If she needs—" "I'll handle it!" Brelan shouted. He didn't look away from Liza. Grice threw his hands. "All right!" he spat, and turned on his heel. His angry departure up a sand dune brought a thick cascade of sand to the spot where Liza and Brelan stood. She took a deep breath. "Answer me one question, Brelan Saur." "If I can," he said too quickly. He was snorting like a bull. She opened her mouth to speak, but then her face turned a sickly white color and she stopped, swallowing hard. "You'd better stay away from those gods-be-damned cream puffs," he snarled, referring to the dozen or so she had eaten that morning, which obviously had given her a bellyache. Liza's face turned from white to yellow to green at the mention of the pastries. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.

"That's what you get! All that curdled cream and maggot-filled pastry and fly-specked cherry glaze." His eyes lit with vengeance. "Made you a bit sick, did it?" She squinted at him, ignoring his sarcasm and vicious intent to make her vomit. "Feel like you gotta puke? Feel like you want to—" He shut up when she raised her hand to him in silent pleading. He gave her a moment to swallow the nausea, then folded his arms and glared at her. "All right, so ask your question, Elizabeth." Liza let out a harsh breath, then locked her eyes on his. "What…" She had to swallow once more to keep down the bile. "What do you think Kaileel's feelings were toward Conar?" Totally unprepared for the question, Brelan stopped another evil remark on his tongue. "What?" "You heard me! Answer!" Thinking her totally beyond reason, he shook his head. "What difference does it make now?" "I have my reasons for asking!" "All right. He hated Conar." "That's what most people think, but Tohre wasin love with Conar," she retorted, ignoring his shocked look. "What about Nadia? Our daughter? How do you think he felt toward her?" Troubled by her seemingly unrelated questions, he stared. "What are you trying to get at?" "Damn it, Brelan! Answer me!" Her voice was a shout of fury. With a snort of exasperation, he snapped back, "I don't think he had any love for her, but—" "Because she was Conar's child?" "Possibly, but—" "Do you think him behind Nadia's death?" "I think the Domination—" "All right, the Domination, then. And would they not try to destroy any child of mine and Conar's in order to exact revenge upon him?" "I would imagine so. He—" "And do you think I would let them even try?" A sudden chill knowledge flowed through Brelan. He took a step back. He stared at her with confusion, speculation, and then slowly looked at her belly where one slim hand was clutched over her waistline. "No," he whispered, his head shaking in denial. All the telltale signs had been there this morning. And the morning before. But he wouldn't believe it. "No." "Do you think I would let anyone hurt Conar's child, Brelan? Conar's legal heir?" "You're…?" He could barely speak. "Do you see now why I must marry Galen?" She saw him shaking his head in furious denial. "I don't see!" "Think, Brelan! You know as surely as I that the child I am carrying will be fair-skinned and blond like his father, as all the pure line of Serenian royal children have been for generations. No royal McGregor male has ever been anything but blond and fair. If I marry anyone else, all Kaileel need do is look at the babe and know! If I marry Galen, the child

can pass as his." His eyes blazed with fear. "Then marry Chase Montyne! He's blond and blue-eyed! You could tell him. He'd do everything in his power to protect Conar's babe! Chase loved Conar as a brother. They were together at the Abbey when…" A flash of rage went through her green eyes. "Chase Montyne is not the heir to the Serenian throne! My child, Conar's child, deserves to be king. I will not let it be any other way!" Her mouth tensed into a hard line. "I care nothing for the wealth and status of being queen, Brelan Saur, but I will not let Kaileel Tohre destroy another McGregor male, and I will not let any other woman's child rule Conar's people!" "What you are proposing is insane!" Brelan thundered. "You would sell yourself to Galen so he will eventually lose the crown? What kind of foolishness is that?" "This child is Conar's legacy to his people. Do you not see that? It was by the gods' will that I conceived before he was taken away. The Domination stole my husband; they stole my child! I willnot let them have this baby! Nothing and no one will ever take this part of Conar away from me! Not now, not ever. I will do what I must to see this babe is born and thrives!" "You will have to lie with that bastard! How can you do that?" His voice shook with fury. "Hear me well, Brelan Saur!" she hissed, stressing each word as though she were talking to the village idiot. "I will marry Galen McGregor although the very thought of his slimy hands on me makes me want to puke! I will marry him and I will conceive on the very first try! I will let Galen touch me because I want Conar's son safe!" "All the more reason for—" "Shut up and listen, damn you!" Liza made a concentrated effort to slow her heartbeat, to lower her voice, to come to grips with her temper. She could see real fear in Brelan Saur's face for the first time. "There will be no more discussion of this. Ever." "But what will you do if you should conceive a child by Galen, Elizabeth?" he asked, his face showing hurt and pain. The grimace on her face turned to a frozen smile of such evil Brelan had to turn away. "I might well drown it with my own hands."

Chapter 8 She stared into the mirror at the face that looked back at her. Dark circles, the color of bruised apricots, showed there. There was hardly any other color in the pinched face, no color at all in her lips. The limp black hair had lost its sheen and lay wildly in abandoned tangles around the oval face. The emerald eyes were bloodshot and puffy, the lids hooded. No light shone there; no life gleamed. The stranger in the mirror was like a ghost. Blank and disembodied. Placing her hand on her chest, the fingers splayed out between her breasts, she tried to still her rapidly beating heart. She tried to ignore the advancing nausea that awakened her every morning and swallowed convulsively to keep the bitter bile from erupting from her throat. Too soon, she thought. It was too soon for anyone to suspect anything. Just a few days more, she prayed. Just a few days more. Getting up, she eased her arms into the sleeves of the robe Gezelle had placed across the chair by her bed. She pulled the wool around her and turned to stare at the still, sleeping man who lay curled in the center of the bed. It was as though she was gazing at him from a great distance; detached; analytical. He might as well have been the coverlet, the sheet, the pillow for all she ever really noticed him. He was simply just there. He hadn't touched her. Not at all. Not on the night of their wedding a week before, not on any night since. He seemed

to be content to pull her into his arms each night and hold her, to softly kiss her on her cheek and bid her a good night's rest. His hands were as polite as that of a stranger's, his actions, those of a brother's. He never stayed to watch her dress in the morning and was already abed when she joined him in their sleeping chambers. "I am not ready, Liza," he would tell her gently, easing away from her touch as she tried to seduce him. "Give me more time, lady." Liza knew she did not have time to spare. Soon, the morning sickness would become more noticeable. Soon, the physical signs would begin. The swollen belly and breasts. If she did not coerce him into taking her within the next few days, all her scheming would have been for naught. Two days passed and it was well after midnight. The room was dark and chill, the fire barely crackling in the hearth. Liza sat on the settee and pulled her feet up underneath her, rested her head against the tall curved back of the satin seat. She willed her body to stop its assault on her. It was hard for her to lie beside Conar's brother, in Conar's bed. She did not sleep well with the man curled lightly against her, touching her as Conar's body had. Often during the day she would slip away, go to her room, and rest after instructing Gezelle to see that no one bothered her. Tonight she had lain awake listening to the light rise and fall of Galen's breath and wished with all her heart she could jam her pillow over his face and smother the life from him. She had to get up before doing just that. Sleep was not what she sought when curling up on the settee, but it closed over her with silent, protective hands. Her body was tired, her spirit sore, and the gods pulled a light blanket of unconsciousness over her huddled form and took her far beyond Boreas Keep… She found herself on a silken pathway, its flowing gray material rippling beneath her as she moved. Music, eerie and tinkling, seemed to swell from beneath the material and she could hear the rise and ebb of cresting waves surging around her. The rhythm of the ocean rippled and fell, flowing over her in cool sheets of comforting sound. It seemed to numb her senses and calm her, to place her on a distant, alien shore where sight and sound were one. She moved in slow motion over the gray, undulating silk gown billowing behind her in a stiff, yet warming breeze. Light pulsed far ahead, glowing, beckoning her to move toward it on feet that barely touched the moving pathway. She heard distant bells: small ones, dark ones, large ones, bright ones. They blended into one long chime held like a concert soprano who has reached the very heights of her talent. She breathed in the salt spray, felt it cool and sticky on her face. Bursts of light spiraled away from her and into the darkened edges of the place to which she trod. Quick streaks of pleasant, surging light shot forth from her body, crackling whip-like all around her. Her aura seemed to waver. The light ahead intensified, melded into a bright band from horizon to horizon. The silken pathway surged sharply upward, ripples shuddering along its entire length, and then fell away beneath her with an eerie sound like flexing tin. Ahead, as she floated from the darkness into the light, a low archway pulsed. Blue light gleamed behind the bright light and then settled to a faint purplish glow. She could see someone standing under the archway. Somehow she knew where that person stood was devoid of life. There, in that ultra-brilliant light, was blazing heat and sand and troubled waters that sucked and drowned. She could feel the heat, the barrenness. She could hear the wail of tortured souls. She could smell the overripe stench of unwashed and sweating bodies. She saw a hand go up in greeting as though to beckon her. She shook her head, knowing she could not travel into the farther reaches of the light. The hand went hesitantly down and broad shoulders sagged beneath the weight of grief. He was black against the blaring white and distant tint of purple. He seemed to be alone, but all around him were voices that screamed and cursed and pleaded—a cacophony of tortured cries. The music seemed to be swelling and it sang to the man who stood before her, warning him not to cross over from the light to the dark. "Who are you?" she asked. He didn't answer.

"Why have you brought me here?" Still he would not answer. Liza reached out her hand and felt the rush of watery air rippling through her fingers. It was cold, painfully cold, but she could not take back her hand, for the heat began to reach her, to hold onto her flesh as though it would mate with her. "Is this hell?" she asked, her voice unsure. He shook his head. "Not for you." Warmth, comforting and sensual, nestled around her as she heard his voice. A peaceful calm settled over her heart and she took a floating step closer to him in order to see his face. "Is it Paradise, then, my sweet lord?" A blast of wintry air rushed at her and pushed her closer to him. As his long fingers gripped hers, she felt ice-cold flesh that miraculously burned with a pulsing heat. "Only when you are here," he told her. She looked into his face, trying to see him, for his back was to the blazing light and his face was still in darkness. "Shall I stay with you?" A heart-felt sob came from his throat. "You can't, Liza." The pain and regret in the way he spoke her name made her cry. His cold flesh closed around her hand and she grasped it with both of her own, trying to pull him into the darkness to warm him. He stood strong and adamant against her puny strength. Cold searing wind enveloped her, chased away the feeling of protection and safety his voice had brought. The music blared like thunder and he lifted his head as though hearing silent commands. "Not yet," he whispered, his voice filled with pleading. "Please, not yet. Just awhile longer." Angry light flared around her, behind her, above and below; it lit the gray pathway so that it shimmered like the depths of the ocean. She looked up into the face of the one holding her hand and all sound, all motion, everything, ceased to exist. Her face lit with a radiance that would have done the gods proud. A smile stretched across her full mouth and she tried to free her hands so she could pull him into her arms. "I have to go, now, Liza," he said so quietly she could barely hear. It was a sound she felt in her very soul. It sounded so far away, even though he stood so close. His whisper cut her to the marrow. "Let me go, now, Liza." "No!" she said and felt a freezing chill saturating her body. "You have to, beloved." "Don't leave me!" she begged and tried to hold onto to his hands, but they were slipping out of her grip. "Liza." The light pulsed so brightly she had to cover her eyes. When she put down her hands, the light was gon,; and with it, the man who had come. "Liza." She felt something dragging her back across the gray path, felt her bare feet slipping along the silk with a rustling sound. She flew backward with a rush of wind.

"Liza!" a voice screamed. She shot into a deep darkness where no light had ever ventured. "Elizabeth!" Reluctantly she came awake. Galen McGregor stood over her, his hands encircling her upper arms as he shook her. His face was filled with alarm and a rapid pulse beat in the column of his throat. When he saw her eyes open, he dragged her to him, his grip tight as he welded her to his chest. She could hear the too-rapid thunder of his heart beneath her cheek. His body trembled. "You scared me near to death!" he said. "I thought you were dying. You were so cold, Liza. So cold and so still. If anything ever happened to you…" He pulled her even tighter to him, put his face against hers. Liza felt numb inside. Her dream had left her with a blinding agony of grief. Despite who this man was, she clung to him, needing the comfort of human touch. She shuddered and felt his hand smoothing her hair, heard him croon some meaningless drivel. She shook so badly, her teeth chattered. "What is it, love?" he whispered, alarm running rampant in his voice. "What frightened you?" She could smell the rich scent of cloves clinging to him and felt the bitter gorge rising in her throat. She gasped, swallowing her aversion to his cologne. She violently shook her head from side to side, wished she hadn't, and tried to push away from him, but his arms only tightened. "Let me go!" she managed to croak. "Liza, please!" he begged. "Tell me what's wrong." His mouth dropped open as he watched his wife struggling like a wild animal. He felt one tiny fist slam hard into his chest and he let her go. In amazement, he saw her stumble into the bathing chamber and heard the awful gagging sounds. Galen let out a tired sigh and hung his head. He listened to her relieving herself, and then followed her into the chamber. He took a fleece cloth, wet it, wrung out the excess water, and then knelt beside her where she hunched over the chamber pot. He pushed aside the heavy sweep of her black hair and put the cloth to her face. "Breathe slowly," he told her. "Breathe a little slower." He patted her trembling lips, wiped at the corners of her mouth. "I have to…I can't…" She bent double over the pot once more, retching dryly. He placed a gentle arm around her waist and held her as she gagged, bracing her straining body against him. His other hand held the wet cloth to her forehead so he could rest her head against his shoulder. How long they sat that way he didn't know. But as the minutes ticked slowly by, he held his position, not speaking, bracing her body. When the nausea passed and her head ceased its wild, careening throb, Liza, turned to him at last. Her chin trembled violently when she looked into his knowing eyes. Little mewling sounds of discovery made their way past her strained throat and she could not stop the horrible shuddering that racked her body. "I've known since the morning of our wedding." She went still as death in his arms, her breath drawn in sharply. "Known what?" A fleeting smile touched his lips. "You are carrying his child." Her face paled. She glared at him with so much hostility her entire body quivered. She tried to push away, but he wouldn't let her. "You have nothing to fear from me," he told her in a quiet, subdued voice. "I would never hurt you and neither will I ever let anyone else hurt you."

"It was the food at supper. It was—" "Have you not wondered why I would not touch you? Why, despite every wile you have used on me, I have rebuffed your caresses?" Her lips twisted with an ugly sneer. "Because women are not to your liking!" His face turned red. He looked away, ducking his head. "I took you once before, and got you with child." Anger sustained her as she shoved him away. "You raped me!" "I wanted to lie with you more than anything I'd ever wanted." "If you wanted me so badly, why not do now what you did then?" "Because I didn't want to hurt the babe." A vicious snarl twisted Liza's pretty mouth. "Why would you care about Conar's child?" A sudden thought turned her face to stone. "If you think to use it as a bargaining tool with Tohre…" Hate and warning filled her voice. "Not with Tohre." "Then with whom?" "You." That one word caused a multitude of fears to rush through her. She stared at him with loathing. "Why?" "Because I am in love with you." "You don't know the meaning of the word!" "I do love you, Liza." "Why should I believe you? You helped kill my husband!" "No, I didn't." "Conar is dead!" she shouted. "Did you try to stop them from killing him?" She impaled him with her hatred. "Did you even care that he died?" Tears cascaded down her pale cheeks. "Are you happy about it now?" "If you believe nothing else I ever say to you, know that I never wanted Conar to die." Her face lit with a terrible glow. "Are you going to tell Tohre about this?" He shook his head. "Why not?" "If he knew, I couldn't protect the child." "Why would you want to protect Conar's babe?" "I will raise him as my own. Isn't that what you intended?" There was a slight quiver in his tone that suggested he felt pain over the notion. "Why would you want to raise Conar's child?" Her voice was ripe with suspicion. "Revenge." "On a dead man?" Her teeth drew back in a feral snarl. "Haven't you done enough to him?" An odd look passed over Galen's face, a look she didn't understand. "Somehow he will know I have won, Liza. I have his crown. I have his woman. I will have his child to bring up for all the world to know as my own. What better revenge?" "Do you think me stupid?" she hissed. "You will badger and hurt this babe as you did its father! I will not allow it! I will fight you to the death!"

"Why does everyone think me such a bastard?" "Because you are!" He opened his mouth, but then clamped shut his lips to calm his temper. "The babe is flesh of my flesh whether I planted it in you or not. It will be my niece or nephew. I wouldn't hurt it for that reason alone." "My daughter was killed—" "Not by any of us!" he snapped. "Not by Tohre or Tolkan or me!" "You admit to being a part of that filth?" "Who do you think they took in Conar's place when you sent those men to free him, Liza?" he shouted. "Whose body do you think they tortured instead?" He shook her. "It was me, Liza! I suffered all the pain Conar did! I bled just like he did!" When she dropped her gaze, he let go of one of her arms to cup her chin and force up her head. "I stood outside that door listening to him scream and I know how hard he screamed! And, the gods help me, I now know why!" She tried to jerk out of his grip. "Take your hands off me!" "I tried to love him," he mumbled, more to himself than to her. "I really tried. But he wouldn't let me. He always hated me and he always will." "You're insane!" "I begged him to take me with him when they were leaving the monastery, but he wouldn't. He left me, Liza, knowing what they'd do to me!" "He didn't leave you! Belvoir and Hern left you. Conar tried to make them stop, begged them not to leave you there, but they ignored him!" She fought against him, trying to get free. "They wanted you to suffer as you had helped him to suffer!" Jaw dropping, Galen's face turned white as snow. He released her. "He didn't want me left there?" "He might not have respected you, Galen, but Conar would havenever wished such torment even on you! You were his brother, and in some twisted way, he cared for you!" She rubbed her wrist where his fingers had bruised her. "He told me he was going after you, but something happened that night. It was soon after our talk that he began to act so strangely, so irrational." Galen knew why—the tenerse. "I didn't know," he mumbled, his entire being aching with a nameless pain. Liza's mouth trembled. She was afraid for her unborn child. She had to make a devil's bargain with this man if it was the last thing she ever did. She was about to try when his voice, low and desperate stopped her. "I would not harm one hair on this babe's head for fear of losing you as I lost its…" His gaze faltered along with his voice. "What do you want from me?" "Your love." "That will always belong to Conar. No man will ever have what is his alone!" "I know." For a moment, he looked away, but when his gaze returned, there was a warning in it. "You ask what I want? All right, I'll make a deal. Share my life, my bed. Pretend for all the world to see that you have some feeling for me. Show me respect; never betray me; never deceive me. In exchange, I will honor you and respect you and the babe. I will make sure no one and nothing comes close enough to do you harm." He lowered his voice. "My word means little to you, I know, but on my life I give you my word. I will never betray you to Tohre or anyone else." "And if I meet your conditions?" "No one need ever know the babe is his until you are ready for the world to know."

"And if I have conditions of my own?" His face clouded; a tiny flicker of annoyance hovered there. He had not expected her to easily give in, but neither had he expected the vitriolic disgust on her lovely face as though she looked at vermin. He regarded her for quite some time. "Which are?" "First, you will not bar my friends from this keep." Legion, Teal, Sentian, and Marsh had been kept away from the keep by official mandate; not that any of them would have come on their own. They made their feelings known on the day she returned to accept Galen's marriage proposal. Conar's friends and brother now thought of her as a traitor and left for Ivor Keep before the actual vows were spoken. Legion sent a letter telling her of his shock and displeasure. Sentian sent word via Hern that he would like to be relieved of his obligations as her Sentinel, something she denied him; but she had not seen nor heard from the young man since. "They will be allowed here if they want to come," Galen answered. "I'm not sure you will ever see them here, though." He didn't like the idea of Conar's cronies near enough to do him harm, especially Sentian Heil. But he knew the men could be controlled if need be. After all, Brelan Saur was about somewhere in the keep. He had been the only one among them to have anything to do with Liza since the wedding. Galen had to give the man his due. He had neither said, nor done, anything in disrespect to Galen. "Anything else?" "If I am to share your life and your"—she nearly choked on the word—"bed, then I will have some pleasures in this life." When he reluctantly nodded, she went on. "I will have you know, I willnot share the same room or table with Kaileel Tohre!" "I understand. What else?" "I will visit my parents when I wish, without you. They have no care for you." Her chin rose. "Agreed." He didn't care for them either. "Provided Brelan accompanies you." She stared at him. Surely Galen didn't know how his half-brother felt about her, she thought, else he would not trust him. "There is one last thing." Galen sighed. "And that is?" She leaned toward him, putting her face close to his. Her eyes bore into his like the flames of the deepest pit in hell. "I will have your word, on the crown of Serenia, which means more to you than anything else, that you will never revile Conar to his babe." Determination twisted her face. "Nor let anyone else ever do so." Galen smiled sadly. "The man is gone. He's no threat to me, now." He stood and held out his hand. "I have no reason to even speak of him again." "I will have your word, Galen McGregor!" she said, ignoring his gesture. He hunkered beside her and put a hand on her shoulder, felt her tense like a coiled spring. He looked into her eyes. "I will never open my mouth to malign him to his child. Nor will I allow anyone else to do so. If this babe should ask about my brother, I will say nothing that is not true." "And that truth being what?" "That he was a good man; a good husband to you; and a good father to his children. He was a brave, respected man, and he had the love of his people." "And when you speak of his death?" "I will say my brother died as bravely as he lived." Liza's mouth turned hard. "Never hurt anyone I care about ever again. Do you understand?" Her determined look as he rose told him everything he would ever need to know about this woman. She was fiercely loyal to those she cared about. He held out his hand to help her up and was surprised when she clasped it. "I understand, Milady." Her next words stunned him.

"I know as surely as we are standing here that you helped Tohre destroy your brother. No one else but you could have done so. No one else. For that, I will hate you until the day I die and beyond. But to keep my babe, Conar's babe, safe, I would whore with the devil himself!" She walked past him and lay on the bed, pulling the coverlet over her shoulders, turning her back on him. Galen wanted to adjust the covers over her, to climb into bed with her, to tell her he loved her, but he didn't. He knew she wouldn't care. Instead, he walked to the window and drew back the curtain. He stood still, not seeing anything outside in the golden glow of moonlight, not caring even if the next day came. His thoughts were beyond the rising sun that would soon break the horizon. His thoughts were on Conar's last moments in the Interrogation Facility. It had been the next to the last time Galen had spoken to his brother. Conar was sitting in one of the inquisition cells. A guard had belted a wide leather strap around Conar's chest, manacled his wrists and ankles to the chair, firmly securing him. Galen had accompanied Kaileel into the chamber, but at first Conar didn't see his twin. His attention was on Tohre as the High Priest went to stand before him. "I have something for you," Tohre said. He held up a vial of tenerse. "You know what it is?" Conar nodded, finally seeing Galen. A faint smile flitted over his tired face. "You've won, Galen," he said quietly. "Are you happy?" Tohre knelt in front of Conar. "The pain will be much less if you take this. All you need do is beg me for it." Galen stepped closer, the better to hear his brother's words. Neither he nor Tohre were surprised when Conar shook his head. "My days of begging are over, Kaileel," Conar whispered. Now, thinking back on it, Galen realized Conar had accepted his fate, surrendered to it with what appeared to be calm acceptance. "As you wish," Kaileel had replied, inclining his head. "But there is one last matter that must be settled before you are taken outside." Conar sighed wearily. "What?" Tohre turned to Galen, who came to stand directly before Conar. "Do you remember your Joining day, brother?" Galen asked. A shadow of sorrow flitted across Conar's pale face. "You know I do." "And do you remember what I promised you?" When Conar shook his head, Galen knew his brother had stopped caring about anything. Galen squatted beside Conar. "You don't remember?" "I'm sure you'll remind me." "I promised the day would come when you would go to your knees before me. Do you remember?" A faint glimmer of defiance entered those tired blue eyes, but disappeared as quickly as it came. "Do you remember?" Galen pressed. "Aye," Conar finally acknowledged. "I remember something of it." Galen smiled. "That day has come." Once more the light flickered in those azure orbs. "What is it you want, Galen?"

"Do you remember me saying you would beg for mercy, beg me to let you die, and I would not give you even that last comfort?" "I'll do neither. If you ever thought I would, you are a bigger fool than I imagined." "I have," Galen said, pulling a sheet of folded paper from his tunic, "a signed confession, sworn to before six of the Tribunal judges, in the presence of Brother Tohre and myself." He unfolded the sheet and turned it so Conar could see the writing. Conar looked at the paper, recognized the distinctive handwriting of one of the condemned Elite who would be hanged. "Did you read it?" Conar didn't answer, jus stared intently at Galen. "Shall Galen read it for you?" Tohre asked. "He knows what it says, don't you, brother?" Galen leaned forward. "I am offering her safety. They will charge her with treason if you don't do what I want." Conar looked at Galen for a long time. He searched his brother's face for even one sign of compassion and found none. Then the proud head bowed, the strong shoulders slumped. He was beaten and knew it. In the end, he humbled himself. Though he could not go to his knees due to his retraints, he begged—not for mercy, not for his life—but for Liza's protection. It was at that moment Galen understood, as he never had before, the king of a man his brother was. Conar didn't care what they did to him, where they sent him, whether he lived or died. All he cared about was his beloved wife's safety. "She's yours, Galen," he whispered. "I give her to you." Galen would never understand why he took his brother's face into his hands and forged his lips to Conar's. "I will care for her just as you have," Galen promised. "I know you will…" Now, looking out the bedroom window, Galen could almost feel Conar's presence. "You never had a choice, my brother." He hung his head. "Neither of us did."

Chapter 9 Brelan sat in the walled garden of Boreas Keep, his mind on the bright stars just beginning to dim in the pre-dawn sky. He could hear the muted ring of laughter from the kitchens as Sadie told a vulgar joke to one of her serving wenches. The laughter irritated him, rubbed his nerves raw. Abruptly, he stood and paced, barely aware of where he was or what he did. He hardly saw the winter-ravaged garden's flowers, falsely decorated with borrowed blooms, or smell their heady fragrance. It had been Liza's choice of a wedding site. Although Liza had most strenuously objected, Tohre performed the ceremony—he could not force Liza to marry in the same place where she had wed Conar, but he still managed to be the one to tie her to Galen. Brelan swore. Grasping a dying blossom in his hand, he crushed it, scattering its wilted leaves and petals about the stone pathway. His heart ached at the thought of the wedding between his beloved Elizabeth and the fool to whom he was related by a burst of lust.

Although he was out in the frigid air, he felt suffocated, unable to draw breath into his tight lungs, as breathless as Conar must have felt when locked in the armoire as a child. A raging pain flared in his temple. He'd never had headaches. Why, now, these debilitating, horribly, blinding pains above his right eye? So like those Conar had experienced since childhood. "Why?" he hissed to the gods, who surely must have been laughing. His hands clenched into fists. He slumped down on the fountain's rim and squeezed his eyes shut, blotting out the image of Elizabeth standing beside Galen, taking her vows, having Galen's marriage bracelet placed upon her for all the world to see. With a violent curse, Saur covered his face with his hands and drew in a hard, unsteady breath of cold air. "Lord Brelan?" "I don't wish to be disturbed!" he shot back. Gezelle drew her shawl tighter around her, took courage from her love for Liza, and stood before the man who sat with one booted foot swinging in angry frustration. Brelan looked up as she came into the light of the blossoming sun seeping through denuded tree branches. He opened his mouth to admonish her, but upon seeing her determined expression, a look far too reminiscent of Liza's stubborn visage, he waited impatiently for her to speak. "You do know why she married him, don't you?" "Do you?" he snapped. "She would have toldyou if no one else, Lord Brelan. She has told me many times that she trusts you. Can I?" Gezelle queried, her eyes searching his in the spreading light. "Who else knows?" he asked, massaging his eye. "Hern." Brelan snorted. "That old bastard knows everything." "He wouldn't tell a living soul." She pulled the shawl around her neck and tucked her chin into the wool. The air was colder than she expected. "Go inside, mam'selle," he warned. "There is nothing we can do. I will protect her as best I can. Galen trusts me, since he knows I bore no love for our brother. He won't make me leave as he did Legion and the others." Gezelle stared, but didn't speak. Feelings, fleeting, yet powerful, had spread over her that day when, from the balcony, she saw Legion and Brelan removing Conar from the whipping post in the square. For an instant, she had watched a revealing emotion cross Brelan's face as he looked at the tortured body of his younger brother. Gezelle had known, even if he had not, the feeling had been love in its purest form. "Do you think she has done the right thing, Gezelle?" he asked, a sad, worried look on his handsome face. "As she sees it, aye, Milord. I know how much this marriage sickens you; it sickens me. But there was no other way if the babe was to be kept safe. He will dote on the child." Brelan's face turned hard with suspicion. "How can you be sure?" "The morning after their wedding, he boasted to several of his guards that he believed he had gotten his wife with child, made bets on how soon an heir would be born." There was a bitter tone in her voice. She turned away, her face furious. "Sooner than he thinks!" He stared at Liza's window. Light flooded from the bedchamber. "He is watching us," Gezelle said softly. "Let him," Brelan snapped. He plowed a hand through his dark hair. "Damn his evil soul to the pit! Couldn't he have had the decency to take another room when he married her?" "What better revenge than enjoying the same bed in which to take his brother's woman?" Her voice was thick with

disgust. "She wanted another room, but he would not allow it." "The son-of-a-bitch wants everything that ever belonged to Conar! Maybe he would like the same kind of death!" "Come inside, Lord Brelan," she advised. "You will get sick out here." "I don't give a damn!" "But she will." Brelan stood where he was, gazing up at the window. When the light was finally bright over the garden and people began to mill about inside the keep, Gezelle firmly took his arm and ushered him toward the garden door. *** Kaileel Tohre sat at his desk, his fingers laced together under his chin. He stared into the distance beyond his chambers, seeing a land of dry, cracked earth. Waterless; windless; vacant; unbearably hot. Tumbling bushes rolled over a sandscape of blistering heat and came to rest along tall sculptures of bleak rock. Venomous life crawled and slithered along the surface of the miles and miles of shimmering sand, hiding away along the tall rocks, sinking into hidden holes and trapdoors to spring forth and kill and maim and destroy. Overhead, vultures circled, swooping down on innocent prey, clutching and rending with their sharp talons, shredding with vicious beaks. A dry, hot smell of death lingered over the land. Opening his fingers, Kaileel rubbed at his tired eyes, plowed the long, sharp nails through his blond hair. He perspired as though he had just trekked across that arid wasteland. His flesh felt hot, blinded by the brilliance of the sun's harsh light. His mouth was dry and his tongue thick. "I will not cry for you," he said, lips trembling. He pressed a hand over his mouth, speaking through his fingers. "I will not cry for you ever again!" But he knew he would. Just as he had cried many times over the years because the boy had not returned his affections. From the moment he first saw Conar McGregor, he had loved the boy. Even as an infant lying in his bassinet, the promise of the power within that small body was evident. The child's aura resonated with immense potential and that potential could be molded in either light or dark hues. It was up to the one who was the strongest teacher to cast the spirit of the infant. Legend had foretold the coming of the Chosen One, the Dark Overlord, and one look at the slumbering babe had made it all so clear to Kaileel: he must be the boy's teacher, his instructor in the ways of the Dark Ones, his guide on the Lefthand Pathway. Biding time was hard. He stood aside as the child's useless mother had tried to instill the precepts of good within that promising young body. Her meddling had signed her death warrant. "Why couldn't you love me, my prince?" Kaileel whispered. "Why did you turn away?" Aye, he had been harsh with the boy at the Abbey. It was the way of the Brotherhood. The pain, the mental torture, the physical and spiritual degradation had to occur for the dark powers to come to the forefront, to overshadow the goodness that was inherent at the child's birth. "I did everything for you. I gave you every opportunity to come to me, return my favor, and what did you do, Conar?" The priest sobbed. "You threw it back in my face! Scorned my love. Despised the hand that tried to lift you above the mundane!" Kaileel got up and walked to the window overlooking the Punishment Yard. He stared at the whipping post, seeing his beloved Conar lashed to the upright, blood streaming down his torn back. "Do you think I wanted that to happen, Beloved? If you had come to me, shown me even a small measure of affection, I would have spared you the agony." A portion of Kaileel's mind knew that was a lie. He had physically enjoyed watching Conar suffer. All hope of the boy ever returning his love had fled by then, to be replaced with a vicious need to hurt Conar. He had wanted to scourge

the stubborn refusal to love him in return from Conar's heart. Instead, he had broken the spirit and the young man's heart and knew beyond any doubt that all chance of Conar ever coming to him was gone. But that did not stop Kaileel Tohre from loving Conar McGregor. Or mourning him. *** The two Temple guards stationed outside Tohre's door were startled by the wails coming from within the office. The sound of furniture and glass breaking galvanized them into action. When they opened the door, they were stunned to see the priest standing in the center of the room, rending his garments and gouging long bloody furrows into his arms and chest. Shocked, they watched Tohre pull viciously at his hair, tugging handfuls from his scalp. "Conar!" he screamed as though in agony, then dropped to the floor in a heap. "Beloved," Tohre whimpered. "My beloved." The guards looked at one another and closed the door, shutting out the sight of the priest curled in a fetal position, his thumb in his mouth like an infant. *** "Galen!" she screamed. "Wake up! Wake up!" He jerked awake, staring wildly, his breath heaving. He buried his face against her chest. "I dreamed about him, Liza," he whispered as though he were afraid to be heard. She stiffened. She did not like having him plastered to her, but she could feel the wild thump of his heart against her ribcage and knew he was experiencing sheer terror. Sweat soaked his body. She didn't have to ask of whom he'd dreamed. They had been through this before. His dreams had come more frequently just as hers had begun fading. "I saw him so clearly!" "And was he in pain, Galen?" In his dreams, Conar was always in pain. He raised his head. When his eyes met hers, they were stark in his pale face. "I am as much to blame as Kaileel for what happened to my brother." Liza wanted to spit in his face. Every night for the last trimester of her pregnancy, Galen had been having these nightmares. It was sometimes nearly an hour before he came back to himself. Tonight, she sensed, would be no different. "He was in such pain, Liza. Such terrible pain!" Her nerves stretched as fine as a gossamer web of silk. "He doesn't feel anything anymore, Galen. He's beyond feeling anything, anymore." He misunderstood her words. "Maybe you're right." Liza bit into her lip. "Stop talking about it." She shoved him away and flung back the covers. "Liza, please! You have to listen!" "You listen to me!" She thrust her arms into the sleeves of her robe hard enough to tear open the seams. "Stop doing this. Do you hear? No more, Galen! I mean it!" "I didn't know he had tried to protect me at the Abbey." Galen's eyes searched the coverlet as though he were scanning a roadmap. "If I had known, I could have warned him about what the Brotherhood had planned. He could have been safe on Montyne Cay. He—" She covered her ears with her hands. "Stop doing this!"

Galen jumped from the bed and ran to her. "I did love him. By the gods, I still love him!" She screamed as loud as she could, and kept screaming until Brelan and Hern burst into the room and pushed Galen away from her. "What happened?" Hern snarled as he pinned the young Prince against the fireplace. Galen shrugged. He had been trying to quiet her. Brelan shook her. "Elizabeth? Elizabeth? Stop it!" He shook her again, mindful of her advancing pregnancy. "Stop it!" "Prick!" Hern snarled, grabbing Galen by the collar of his nightshirt. "What did you do?" Brelan managed to pull Liza's hands from her ears, caught sight of her strained face just as her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed against him. "Get Cayn!" he bellowed, lifting her into his arms and hurrying her to the bed. Hern ran from the room, his voice shaking the windowpanes as he bellowed for the healer. Galen couldn't seem to move. He stared at Brelan as the man rubbed Liza's hands. "Pray she'll be all right," Brelan sneered, glaring at Galen. "Or you won't live 'til morning." "I don't know what I did," Galen whispered. A muscle bunched in Brelan's cheek. "Find another room to sleep in!" Galen nodded as Cayn rushed through the door and shouted for the men to leave. Galen was the first to do so. He took the stairs to the lower level and disappeared. *** Galen awakened from a dream too terrible to remember, but it left him with a sense of such helplessness and hopelessness that he was physically ill. His entire body burned as though he had walked through fire. Drenched in his sour sweat, he sat up in the bed he had used as a youth. He hadn't slept with Liza since the night she had almost miscarried. Her room—Conar's old room—was down the hall, and he often went there to speak with her during the day, spending time with her since she had been confined to her bed until the babe was born. "I can't go on like this," he whispered to himself. "I can't." The room was stifling with heat, although the fire had died in the grate. The air was thick, humid, pressing down on him. Sweat rolled down his sides, into his eyes, over his upper lip. He could barely move, for his body was sore beyond belief and tired beyond words. He lay down and buried his face in the relative cool of his pillow, clutching it to him as though he were close to drowning. With a suddenness that nearly drove him insane with fear, something hot and searing fell across his shoulders and back. He gasped with the terrible pain of it. He bolted upright, pushing his burning back against the headboard, his arms thrown over his face. He could feel sticky moisture running down his back, his sides, pooling beneath his rump. "Kill me," he said. "Go ahead and kill me this time." Something moved. A dark shadow against the lighter darkness of the far corner. Slowly he stared into the vacant room as though the hounds of hell were snarling after him. "I want to die. Alel, please let me die." Then it was there. That dark shadow. It wavered for just a moment outside his line of vision. When he turned his head to look, he saw blue eyes peering back at him from the darkness. "Let me die," the shadow whispered. "I can take no more." Galen opened his mouth and screamed.

Chapter 10 Captain Holm van de Lar watched the tall man as he spent his gold freely, unflinchingly, unwisely. The good sea captain sat with his booted feet propped up on a table, silently toasting the vast amount of ale the tall, dark-haired man was consuming. A slight smile lingered on Holm's sea-weathered face. In the space of two hours, the dark man's five companions had either drank themselves into stupors, or else were asleep beneath the table at which the tall man sat drinking, his brown eyes staring into his ale cup. The man didn't seem to notice he had been left alone to drink, a task he seemed to be relishing with no great enjoyment. Sensing himself being stared at, the tall man turned and glowered at Holm, but Holm simply raised his tankard and took a leisurely drink, all the while staring at the man who had developed a fierce scowl on his handsome face. Another hour passed. Holm continued to watch the man swilling ale as though there was no tomorrow. He smiled as the man turned to glare. "Quit it." "Quit what?" Holm replied in a friendly tone. "Staring." "I wasn't staring at you, my friend, but rather admiring the ease with which you are consuming your ale." Holm sat down his tankard. "I don't believe I have ever seen your equal, Milord. I meant no offense." He nodded at the man's snoring companions. "I would be numbered among them if I were to try matching you drink for drink." Looking at his friends, the man grinned, his lopsided smile endearing. "Not an upright bunch, are we?" "Only you could be classified as such, Milord." "None of us are sober," the man quipped. He pushed a drunk off his table, his dark eyes following the man's roll to the floor. "Nighty-night, Heil!" he whispered. He looked at Holm and wagged his brows. "Never could hold his liquor." "How about you, Milord? Have you had your fill or may I buy you another?" The man turned a suspicious frown to the captain. "Why would you want to?" "I admire your talent." Holm shrugged his broad shoulders in the black tunic of his service uniform. "And I find it intolerable drinking alone, don't you?" Getting unsteadily to his feet, the man grabbed up his empty tankard and walked with exaggerated precision to the captain's table. He gingerly seated himself, watching as Holm adjusted his massive body to his chair. "How long have you been ashore?" the man asked, trying to focus on Holm's wide face. The man was dwarfing the rail back chair, sitting in such a way it was hard to believe the spindly thing could hold his bulk. "How much do you weigh, anyway?" Holm chuckled, motioning for the tavern wench to bring another round. "I just returned from a lengthy journey around the cape, and I don't weigh enough to shatter this little chair, Milord, so don't worry." "Wasn't in the least damn bit worried." The man brought up and frowned. He turned it upside down and shook it. "Fool thing's got a hole in it." "You got a hollow leg, is all," the tavern wench accused as she sat another tankard. "I don't know where you put it."

The man chuckled. "Many a lass has asked herself that same question when I screwed her!" She snorted. "Full of yourself, aren't you, Milord?" His grin turned vicious. "Do you want to be full of me?" "For thirty gold pieces, I just might." He choked, spewed ale on the table, and turned a stunned face to her. "I've never paid for it in my life!" Her saucy lips twitched. "Just drink up, Milord. If you can hold anymore!" He glared at her. "I'll piss it out. What are you worried about?" She put a work-reddened hand on her more-than-ample hips. "Don't make no nevermind to me, so long's you don't piss on my floor!" Seeing the man fumbling with the buttons on his breeches, Holm tapped the man on the shoulder. "I captained the Serenian Star her last time out," he said to get the man's attention. Something in the dark way the captain spoke made the man look at his new companion. He took his hands from his buttons, glanced at the serving wench with a look of disdain that warned her he'd mess her floor if she bothered him again, then turned his close scrutiny to Holm. "I usually don't captain that hell-ship. I am registered for theBoreas Queen ." "Cargo ship," the man said, nodding. "I know her." He took up his tankard, started to drink, then stopped. Locking his gaze with Holm's, he sat forward. "TheSerenian Star , you say?" "Aye." "That's the ship that took the coffins to sea. Do you know who I am?" "You're Lord Brelan Saur, one of the King's sons." Holm brought the cup to his lips, peering at Saur over the rim. "Prince Conar's sworn enemy, I'm told." He took a swig of the buttered ale. Brelan squinted. "And who are you?" "You don't remember me, do you, Lord Brelan? I used to captain theWindswept . I took you and the little princes sailing many a time. You learned to rig a sail on a trip up to Virago…?" A glimmer of a smile touched Brelan's lips. "Was that the time I pushed Coni overboard and he nearly froze to death before you got him back on board?" Holm locked his gaze with Brelan's. "It was." "By the gods but it was cold up there in the North Boreal." Brelan chuckled. He noticed Holm's expressionless face. "You whipped my ass that day." "I did." "I deserved it." "You did." Saur drained his tankard and sat back in the chair. "You were rather fond of him, weren't you?" He caught the tavern wench's eye and pointed to his empty mug. Holm leaned his elbows on the table. "I greatly admired and respected your brother. The only reason I took out the Serenian Star , the reason I swapped my good lady-ship for another, is so I could be the one to lay His Grace to rest. He loved the sea." His face softened. "He will be missed." "Not by everyone."

"I have heard there are those who are glad the young prince is gone. Are you one of them?" Holm held Brelan's stare. "I didn't want the man dead." "Just out of your life, eh?" Brelan looked into his mug. "Something like that." He didn't even look at the girl as she sat another tankard before him. Captain van de Lar drained his mug. He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest, his gaze intent on Brelan. "I have a question. One I hope you can answer…a real puzzler." Brelan ground his teeth. "I have no desire to discuss Conar, if that's what you have in mind. Let him rest in peace." "Is that what you want for him? Peace?" "Don't you think he deserves it after what the Tribunal put him through?" "Do you?" Saur glowered. "I said I don't want to discuss him!" "Let's talk about the edict under which I set sail, then." Holm cocked his head to one side. "An edict that made no sense to me." "What edict?" Brelan had difficulty focusing on the man's unfriendly face. "The edict that was to be opened only after we reached the harbor at Haelstrom Point." "You were to drop the coffins into the sea near Virago. What of it?" Brelan blinked to try to clear his vision. "Well, now, you see, that's what everybody thinks, Lord Brelan. We were told to drop them coffins at the reef near the entrance to the Viragonian harbor, so the whirlpool there could suck them into the ocean's depths. That was how my orders read when I sailed from this very harbor." "So?" "But before that, I was to open a special edict that came from High Priest Kaileel Tohre. Once you clear Haelstrom Point, you have to sail through a narrow channel to reach the Viragonian harbor at Baybridge. Once there, a tug has to turn you about so you'll be heading back down the channel and out to the Boreal Sea. That special edict of Tohre's was to be opened only after I was in the channel, beyond the lock, sitting there at the Haelstrom Point lighthouse buoy. Once you reach that point, there ain't no turning back 'til the tug takes you. You can't back out of that channel, and until the lock opens, you can't head on up the channel. You see what I'm saying?" Brelan couldn't have cared less. "Well, I got into that position and I opened that edict, and when I did, I grew curious." He nodded his head as though agreeing with himself. "I grew damned curious." Brelan felt the hairs on back of his neck moving. "What did it say?" Holm looked around, insuring himself no one was overly interested in their conversation. The wench was warming her fanny in front of the massive stone fireplace, her skirts rucked up in back; the barman was nodding beside his taps; one or two patrons were staring off into space, their eyes glazed with heavy drinking. The others were asleep, passed out, or dead. "We were told not to drop all them coffins at the reef near Baybridge." Holm lowered his voice. "We were to drop six there but the seventh we weren't." He watched the puzzled frown forming on Saur's flushed face. "What are you saying?" Brelan was none the best for the large amount of ale circulating throughout his system. "That seventh coffin was taken someplace else." "Where?" For a long time, Holm regarded him silently. The man was definitely beyond sobriety, much the less for wear, but Holm

van de Lar had something on his mind that had been nagging at him and this man was the only source available who might put his worries to rest. "How sober are you, Lord Brelan?" "Sober enough!" "Sober enough to listen carefully?" Brelan emphatically nodded his head. "You betcha!" Not really sure he should finish what he started, Holm nevertheless took a chance that Lord Brelan Saur was half the man his brother had been. But he wanted to be sure. "Can you be trusted?" Brelan glared at the captain. "No one has ever dared to questioned my honor before, sir!" "I ain't questioning your bloody honor, man! I asked if you could be trusted!" "Trust me with what?" Holm put his hand on Brelan's arm as the man was about to take a drink. "Pay attention!" he snarled, gaining Brelan's total attentiveness. "I got real suspicious about that edict, so I opened"—his face turned dark—"I opened that coffin." Brelan flinched. "Why did you do that?" Holm made an ugly snort. "Like I told you. I was curious. The seventh coffin was supposed to be left at the lighthouse before we cleared the lock into that narrow tunnel." "But why did you open it?" "To make damned sure the corpse was dead!" Holm's grip on Brelan's arm turned fierce. "It made no sense to leave a coffin when the rest of them was going someplace else." A pained look crossed Brelan's face. "Was he…?" "Dead, you mean? Aye, Lord Brelan, he was." He waited until his companion focused before he continued. "Here's my question. Seven coffins left Boreas to be dropped at that reef. That's what the Tribunal wants everyone to believe. Now, why do you think that is?" Brelan yanked his arm from Holm's grip. "How the hell should I know? And why would I care? Why the hell are you telling me this?" "Maybe you got the answer to my question." Quaffing down his ale, bored with the man, and now just a little more than afraid for a reason he couldn't name, Brelan pushed back his chair to leave. Holm shot out a vise-like hand, gripped his arm, and dragged him down. He sat with a thud, a stinging pain roaring through his tailbone. "Damn your eyes, man! That hurt!" The captain glared. Piercing blue eyes regarded Brelan with ill-concealed impatience and something akin to dislike. The hooked nose that made the captain's face seem both reckless and ruthless, bobbed up and down as he nodded. "I got your attention again, Lord Saur?" he asked, hissing his question like a viper prepared to strike. The callused hand effectively clamped on Brelan's arm pinned the younger, slimmer man to the table and enlisted his full regard. Holm van de Lar gave him a look that would have quelled the fiercest warrior. "Who do you suppose was in that seventh coffin we left at Haelstrom?" "I don't give a damn!" Brelan whispered savagely. "And if you don't let go of my arm, you'll draw back a stump!" He put his hand on the dagger strapped to his thigh. Holm jerked Brelan's arm. "Do you know what ships drop anchor at Haelstrom Point? That's where theBorstal and the Barracoon pick up prisoners destined for the prison colony at Ghurn." "So what?" Brelan bellowed. "Get your hand off my—" He tried to wrest his arm free, pushing at the strong fingers

with his free hand. "Damn it, let go, I said!" "When we got there, there was another prison ship anchored. One that you don'tever see at Haelstrom Point," Holm explained, ignoring Brelan's attempt to get loose. Brelan slammed down his hand on the encroaching fingers, but the captain didn't bat an eye. His gaze was intent on Brelan's sweaty face. "What the hell do you want me to say?" "That hell-ship was in the harbor waiting for us, Lord Saur. There were no other prisoners. They were there just to pick up that coffin. Why do you think that was?" Holm let Brelan jerk his arm away. "I don't give a rat's ass. I care even less why you took the damned seventh one to Haelstrom, or even why you dared to open the bloody thing! And as for that ship picking up the damned bloody coffin, that concerns me even less than the piss I am royally in need of pissing!" He stood on wavering legs and steadied himself by taking a firm grip on the table's edge. He leaned toward Holm. "Why don't you ask Tohre why he sent a dead man to Ghurn colony?" "TheVortex don't go to Ghurn, Lord Brelan." "You just said…" Brelan wasn't sure what the man had said, but whatever it had been, he obviously hadn't paid sufficient attention to it, for the big man bounded from his chair, towering, and grasped Saur's shirt in two meaty, ham-like fists. Brelan found himself dangling in midair as the captain shook him like a wet dishrag. "I told you theVortex don't ever drop anchor at Haelstrom Point! No one knows where that black piece of shit docks, because the only time you see it is when it runs between Idal and Hydrea to pick up prisoners! If theVortex picks up a prisoner whose papers read Ghurn colony, you can bet that ain't where the unlucky fellow is going. If he were, he'd have been put on theBarracoon or theBorstal . The Tribunal don't want anyone to know the real destination of its prisoners that sail theVortex , Lord Brelan, sir; but every sea captain in the Seven Kingdoms knows where that ship winds up!" The captain swung around the table and slammed Brelan into the wall beside them, cracking the younger man's head on the support beam that ran the width of the ceiling. "Whatever them papers read, it don't mean nothing, you understand? The only thing for sure is this. TheVortex goes to one place and one place only with its human cargo, be it dead or not!" Brelan saw a burst of light and would have lost consciousness if he had not been viciously shaken, his head wobbling on his neck. He tried to focus on the captain's snarling face. "Ain't you the least bit curious, Lord Brelan, sir, to know whose coffin I opened?" "Huh?" Brelan felt himself slipping over the edge of awareness and, with some difficulty, viewed the swelling, pulsating face hovering under his nose. "Ain't you the least bit curious to know why theVortex was at anchor waiting for us? And ain't you the least bit curious to know why its crew put that coffin in theVortex's hold?" "Captain, I don't seem to be able to…" Holm again slammed Brelan into the wall. "What I want to know, Lord Brelan, sir," Holm growled, "is why your brother's coffin was taken to the Labyrinth Prison Colony." "Labyrinth?" was all Brelan was able to say before tumbling into an ever-increasing darkness with that one word echoing behind him. He knew it meant something. Should mean something, but all he could do was lurch into darkness. And with the darkness, all memory of the word, and the speaker, vanished.

Chapter 11

She was in agony. Her body felt as though it were being ripped apart. Wide bands of intense pain flowed through her abdomen, gripping, pulling. She dug her heels into the mattress and pushed, strained hard against the tearing agony. Her upper body glistened with sweat. The top of her gown stuck to her heaving chest, the bottom of it pushed up over the swollen mound of her cramping belly. Her hands had a death-grip on the headboard behind her. She struggled against the scream that pushed at her throat, bit back the wild sound striving to escape. Her back arched, and she bit into the folded rag they had placed between her teeth to keep her from biting her tongue. Her chin pressed into her chest as she rode out the agony. She pushed. And pushed. And pushed. A searing pain tore part way from her struggling body, but she could feel the spasm subsiding too soon, before she could heave her burden into the world. It had been thirty hours already. "Lie back," Cayn instructed. Settling among the sweat-soaked bedclothes, she could vaguely hear Cayn's instructions to Gezelle and Sadie. Her mind was trying to free itself from this mortal plane on which she lay. She tried to block out the godawful pain draining the life from her body. It had not been this bad with either of her other two babes, even the miscarriage. She tried to smile at Sadie as the cook eased the rag from her mouth. "Birthing is a hard thing, Milady; 'tis a woman's curse, I fear." There was a gentle look on the old woman's face. "He put you through hell and is still doing so." She bathed Liza's face with a cool cloth. "Like he did my Joannie." Liza was too weak to question the woman's enigmatic and cryptic mumblings. Thirty hours. Had it been only thirty hours? she thought with dismay. It felt far longer. The babe strove to hurl itself from her womb, but time after time, the pains would slacken, and she would lay exhausted, trembling from her effort. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew if the babe was not born soon, neither she, nor he, would survive. "Cayn?" she called out weakly, turning to the Healer. "Aye, Highness," he answered, taking hold of her hand. Her voice was hoarse, dry. "Let nothing happen to this babe…" The Healer looked down at her with pity. He stroked the damp hair from her forehead. "Just a wee bit longer, Your Grace. You just relax now." "Don't let my baby die…" she whispered, clutching the man's hand to her bosom. "I care not for myself, but you must not let his babe die." Cayn pursed his lips, his thoughts written across his aged face. He had never liked Galen McGregor. Not from the moment the mewling, ugly-red little bastard had slipped into the world from his mother's straining womb. There had been something about that babe even then that had turned Cayn against him. And he liked the young Princess' marriage to the man even less. He couldn't have cared any less than he already did if Galen's bratling lived or died. He did, however, have a care for Conar McGregor's lady, as he would always think of Liza. He shook his head at her request. "It is you I will save if it comes to that, Liza. There can always be other children." "No!" three women protested in unison, stunning the Healer. Liza gripped his hand so fiercely, he could feel his arthritic bones grinding together.

"You must save this babe!" Liza pleaded. "You must let nothing happen to his child!" "Listen to her, old man!" Sadie hissed. "You pay her heed!" "Aye, you'd better!" Gezelle snarled. Cayn stared at Liza. A pang of sheer hatred for Galen shot through him. What vile punishment would Liza be forced to endure if the babe did not survive? Would the surly bastard blame her? Of late, Galen had been more irrational than ever. His nightly screams awakened the entire keep. "Cayn, please!" Liza pleaded. "You must let nothing happen to his child!" He was about to tell her he would think on the matter, when he saw the green eyes widen in pain once more, the slender body stiffen against the contraction. He didn't have a chance to tell her to push, for her body was already straining, the slender hips arching. Gezelle looked at Sadie MacCorkingdale and knew the old woman must have realized who the father of the Princess' babe was. Sadie nodded in understanding. "Gezelle!" Liza whimpered, her hand shooting out to clutch at the servant girl. "Please!" Gezelle whispered in her ear, making a vow that the babe would not be sacrificed for the mother. If she had to, she would tell Cayn who the babe's father was. Pain. Sharp, unrelenting, and tearing, surged through her lower body. Liza heaved all her strength into pushing out the burning, ripping form struggling to be born. She felt something tear, felt the warm gush of water and blood and fluid along her thighs and under her buttocks. A scream tore through her parched mouth and soared to the vaulted ceiling. "Oh, god!" came a loud male voice from outside the room. Something sounded against the door, angry mumbles were heard. "You ain't going in there, Saur!" Hern's bellow could be heard to Diabolusia and back. "The head!" Cayn shouted. "Push, Your Grace!Push!" Another scream bubbled out of her. Liza pushed as hard as she could, her heels nearly covered in the folds of the mattress. She didn't feel Sadie holding her right hand, Gezelle her left as the two women levered her up in the bed. "Push, sweeting," Sadie told her. "Push the little one out into this old world." She felt an awful pain, felt something tear free, and her body shook. Her hands, which had feverishly gripped the headboard before, now clutched Sadie's and Gezelle's with equal intensity. "One more push, Milady!" Gezelle instructed. She squeezed her eyes and heaved. "It's coming!" Cayn yelled. "It's…" Liza felt the babe slip from her in a rush of liquid and pain and she slumped into the arms holding her. "A boy!" Sadie cried. "Just like you said! 'Tis a baby boy!" There was no need to swat this child's rear. He came into the world screaming lustily and kicking with tiny red feet that brooked no interference with its arrival. His pinched face was screwed up, raging at the injustice of being so rudely thrust out of the warmth and comfort of his mother's belly. His little chin wobbled as he bellowed his tinny yelp of indignation. The little eyes were scrunched so tightly together it appeared as though he did not wish to see what vile place he had been dropped into. Utilizing the last of her waning strength, Liza raised her head as Cayn laid her son on her belly. Tears fell down her pale cheeks. "His name is Corbin Alexi McGregor." If the boy could not have his father's name, he'd have his initials.

Gezelle smiled at the body squirming on her mistress' belly as Cayn cut the cord with the ceremonial dagger that had severed the ties between royal Serenian mothers and sons for generations. "He's got a set of lungs on him, don't he?" Gezelle laughed. Cayn ignored her. He was frowning even more. Why couldn't it have been a girl? Galen had been bragging for months about the son he was going to have. Why had the gods favored the little creep once more? "Sleep, now, Highness," he said a bit too gruffly. "We'll see to the brat." Liza allowed the women to ease her onto the mattress. She looked at Gezelle and gave silent instructions. No one but Gezelle would care for this babe. No one. Gezelle would see him safe. Gezelle would protect him. "With my life," Gezelle swore. She was already deep in slumber before her head settled on the pillow. *** Cayn handed the babe to Gezelle. He gently washed Liza's body as Sadie took away the afterbirth. Cayn tucked a folded piece of material between Liza's open thighs to staunch the blood, then drew the soaked gown from her when Sadie brought a fresh one. Gezelle finished bathing the child, then wrapped him in a light swath of material. She held him in her arms as she and Sadie looked down at him with wonder. "He's going to break a few hearts." Gezelle sighed as she cooed to the still-bawling infant. Sadie's mouth turned down. "Just like his father did." "Get that brat out of here before his mewling wakes her," Cayn told them. Gezelle's smile faded. She felt she had to say something, but wasn't sure if she should. She looked at Sadie. The old cook shrugged. "He needs to know if he's to take good care of this boy." Gezelle took a tiny fist in her hand and opened the boy's fingers, not at all surprised with what she saw in the little palm. She looked up from the babe's little fist to the physician's stiff back. "Have you looked closely at him, Healer Cayn?" Cayn turned from the bed to gather his instruments. "He's alive. What else do I need do for Galen McGregor's ill-begotten spawn?" Sadie shook her head. "You might need look to him to see that he is well." "I can hear the little bastard," Cayn shot back. "He's well enough. I won't be touching him again until his circumcision, and even then, I won't touch him long!" "Did you not make an oath to care for all your people, Healer Cayn?" Gezelle met his hard glower as he turned to stare at her. "I am aware of my obligations, girl! I do no harm. That is the way of Healers." He sneered at the baby. "I'll do no harm to him, either. But I have no desire to see that man's whelp!" Cayn began to jam his things into his bag. "He looks like every other one I've ever delivered! Mayhap a bit more vile, considering who his father is!" "I must insist you look to him, sir!" Gezelle told him, her face set in lines of battle. "This child is like no other you have delivered within the last twenty odd years." Cayn turned, annoyed. How dare she speak to him in such a manner? His grimace was meant to quell the silly little chit, but the girl raised her chin and held the infant out to him. "This child is no different! He's a wee part of his bastard father! I delivered that son-of-a-bitch twenty some odd years ago, too!" "See if you don't see something different about this babe," Sadie cautioned. "There seems to be something wrong, eh, Gezelle?" Annoyed that his authority was being usurped, Cayn stalked over to the infant and glanced at it with disdain. "What

is it I should see? It looks perfectly normal to me." "Look more closely," Gezelle told him. The babe had quit crying, one of the things that had annoyed Cayn most of all, and was now making slurping noises that made the man look down hesitantly despite his desire not to do so. "The little bastard's hungry already!" "Look at his eyes," Sadie said as the babe opened his sky-colored eyes and seemed to stare up at the Healer. Cayn frowned; his forehead puckered. He set his bag on the foot of the bed and held out his arms. Gezelle let him take the child, watching as he laid the babe on the bed and pulled the covering away from the wrinkled body. He scanned the blue-tinted flesh; he eased his hands over the limbs and along the slightly distended belly; he turned the child and viewed him from the backside. His frown deepened. He slipped his index finger into one closed little hand and pried the fingers apart. He saw what the two servants had meant for him to see. "By the gods," he whispered. His hand trembled as he stroked the white-blond fuzz of hair. His fingers trailed down the round face and cupped the boy's chin, stunned when a tiny smile hovered on the lips. He looked at Gezelle and saw her nod. His gaze went to Sadie. "And now you know why Her Grace would have died before letting the babe?" Sadie told him. Cayn glanced at the sleeping mother, then back at the infant. "I should have known." One finger gently traced the small birthmark in the babe's right palm. "Only one man I ever knew had them crescent-shaped marks in his hand, eh, Cayn?" Sadie asked. "The Sign of the Wind," Cayn informed her. "The Overlord's symbol." "Those birthmarks will have to be hid. Someone could see them and they'd know." Cayn nodded. He would see to it himself. And soon. "That's why she had to marry that vile whoreson," Gezelle said. "To keep the prince's heir safe." Cayn glanced at the girl with astonishment. Gezelle was giving him one jolt after another. Where had this timid girl come by such courage? He shook his head at the fiercely gleaming promise of protection in Gezelle's green eyes. "Their secret is safe with me." "I know." "Leave off, mam'selle." He chuckled. "We'll guard this little one." Cayn covered the babe and handed it to Gezelle. Other than the dual birthmarks in the palm of the babe's hand, there was nothing else in his appearance that could definitely say who the father was. Galen had been born with the same tuft of white-blond hair, the same blue eyes, although they had darkened somewhat as he grew older. The coloring was the same as all babes. The round face and slightly cleft chin were McGregor trademarks. "I'll have to hurt this babe in order to protect him." "Then best do it while his mother sleeps, Cayn, else you won't!" Sadie cautioned. "How?" Gezelle asked, her arms tightening around the boy. "The only way I know is to burn them." Cayn flinched as he remembered the burns in Conar's palms. Gezelle's face turned chalk-white. "Is there no other way?" "I have to make them look like a strawberry rash. A strawberry birthmark in his palm is a sight safer than those Wind symbols." His face took on a protective scowl. "A little pain now is better than a lot of pain later; pain such as his father endured! Conar would have understood."

*** The bells from the temple peeled out across the keep and into the surrounding countryside. Everywhere, people looked up from their early morning tasks, then shrugged away any concern for what had taken place. Few, if any, smiled, and those who did, did so out of relief that the young Princess had been spared, for it was common knowledge that her birthing was a difficult one. But it mattered not at all if the child had been born alive or dead. After all, it was Galen McGregor's ill-begotten seed that had sprung into life, and no one took notice. Had the child been his twin's, a mighty celebration would have started at the exact moment the first bells began to ring. King Gerren had been ill for quite some time, not really having gotten over his stabbing. His decline began the day they carried his beloved son, Conar, out to sea. The King took to his bed shortly after seeing Conar's dearly-loved wife wed to Galen. He had not risen from that bed again. "It's a boy," Hern told him as he softly opened the King's door. "In good health?" "Aye, with a set of lungs on him like his father's." Hern came to sit beside the one true friend he had ever known. "Handsome, is he?" Hern grinned. "Looks just like his Papa did at that age." Gerren reached out a troubled hand. "The birthmarks?" "He has them, but Cayn saw to it. Shall I bring the brat to you, Gerren?" The King's eyes misted. He nodded. "I'll be right back," Hern said, standing. His face filled with concern. "Feeling better?" Gerren tried to smile. His life was fast ebbing away, and he knew it. "Hurry, old friend." Hern hesitated. "Let me call Cayn, Gerren, he can—" "My race is almost run, Hern. You know it as well as I. I am ready to see my lady and son." A look of intense sorrow passed over the aged Master-of-Arms' face and he choked back a sob. "Let me get your grandson," he whispered, his throat closing. "Don't you go nowhere until I get back!" "I have no intention of leaving until I see my legal heir." Gerren's gaze followed his friend from the room. He could faintly hear Hern's heavy footsteps running down the hall, skipping down the stairs. He smiled. "Always were rough on the stairs, Hern," he said with a shake of his head. From outside his window, he heard the dainty call of a mourning dove. He turned his head toward the light. The curtains billowed and a sweet scent drifted through the parting curtains. Gerren inhaled the misty aroma of lilac. "Gerren?" a sweet voice called. "Aye, love?" "Hold out just a bit longer." "I am trying, love." The door opened. He turned his head to see Hern standing beside his bed, a wrapped bundle in his beefy hands. "Here he is, Gerren," the old warrior said as he extended the bundle. "Here's our grandson." Gerren tried unsuccessfully to raise himself. He looked up at Hern.

"Never you mind," the Master-at-Arms growled and bent over to place the child where the King could see him. He pulled back the swaddling and exposed the naked boy. "Ah." Gerren's voice was filled with wonder. "You're a handsome one, you are. Hern smiled proudly. "And will break a few hearts." Gerren chuckled softly. He raised his weak hands and let Hern settle the babe in his arms. The king's face took on a sheen of pride. "The lady named him Corbin Alexi," Hern informed his King. Gerren nodded. "Take care of him, Hern. As you did his Papa." "With my last ounce of life, Majesty." Gerren lowered his head to the pillow. "Return him to his Mama. Tell her I am well pleased with my heir." "She wants to see you when she can be up and about. Cayn has told her she can not leave her bed until tomorrow at the earliest." He held the babe as though it were a precious, rare crystal. Gerren sighed. "We'll see." "Do I send her your love, Gerren?" The King nodded. His voice broke. "Tell her that her secret will go with us to our graves." Hern swallowed. "I can call Gezelle to come get him. I can stay with you." "Not this time, my friend. Tonight, I am going to make my Peace with the Wind." "Gerren, no!" "I do not have the will to go on." Hern was unaware he was crying, or that his hold on the infant had tightened, until a mewl from the baby drew his immediate attention. "Gerren, please," the old warrior pleaded. "Don't go traipsing off without me, too! First our lady and then our boy. You gotta wait until I'm ready to go and I ain't nowheres near ready!" Gerren shook his head. "She's here, Hern, waiting for me. Would you deny me?" Hern looked toward the window, smelled the ripe scent of lilac for the first time and felt his stomach lurch in sorrow. He looked back to his friend. "She's just looking after you, Ger. She ain't here to take you home with her!" "Aye, but she is," Gerren sighed, smiling gently. "And when it's your turn, we'll be waiting on the Other Side for you." Hern stepped closer to the bed and held the infant out to his friend. "Take him. Hold him. He don't want his granpappy going nowheres. Here!" Gerren shook his head. "You won't bully me into doing what you want this time. I'm ready to make my Peace with the Wind and I long to be with my lady. Don't deny me that, I beg you." Hern's whimper was all the protest he could make. He could find no words to say goodbye, and did not want to. Gerren smiled. "Goodbyes are for lovers, not old fighting men like us. May the Wind be at your back, Hern Arbra." Hern's face twisted with grief. "Gerren…" "Train him, Hern," the king said in his most commanding tone. "Train the heir to the throne as you trained his father. Make Conar proud." The scent of lilac grew, A gentle wind began to waft through the chamber.

"Best to get the brat back to his mama," Gerren advised. "It's a bit drafty in here." Hern could barely see for the tears pouring down his cheeks. He felt alone, lost, his heart breaking inside his wide chest. He held out the infant like an offering, wanting his friend to take the child, but knew he would not. "She sees him, Hern, and she's very happy," Gerren whispered. "Now, leave me with my lady so we can make the trip home together." Hern felt a gentle push against his shoulder. He turned, saw no one there, but the pressure of an unseen hand was so real it scared him. And made it possible for him to leave. "The gods bear you to Paradise, Majesty," the old warrior sobbed. "And bring you to me when it is your time to make your Peace with the Wind, my good friend." With heavy heart and heavier footsteps, Hern trod to the door looked back. "I love you, Gerren McGregor." "And I love you, Hern Arbra." The door closed and Gerren once more turned his gaze at the window. A breeze lifted the curtains inward and the aroma of lilac grew more intense. "Are you ready, my love?" Gerren took one last breath. He passed out of this life with a gentle smile on his face and his right hand crooked as though it were in the palm of another. *** As he entered his father's room, Legion knew immediately something was wrong. The very air was filled with a strange light drifting in through the window, an unusual floral scent. He called to his father and when he received no answer, walked softly to the bed, but be knew long before he reached the massive cherry footboard his father was gone. "The Wind guide you to him, Papa," he said to the shriveled, pitifully thin man. He took one age-spotted hand and brought the cold flesh to his lips. He hoped with all his heart his father was now with the son he had loved the best. "I always envied Conar your love, Papa," Legion said as he stroked his father's hand. "I knew you loved me, but it was Coni who was your favorite." Tears slid down A'Lex's face. In the space of so short a time, he had lost a nephew he never got a chance to see, a niece, a beloved brother, and now his father. So much sorrow in so little time was almost more than the staunch warrior could stand. He had shed more tears in the last year than he had shed in his entire life and had known more misery than he would have thought possible. Being a passionate man, Legion A'Lex grieved as hard as he fought and loved. Though his grieving was done in the privacy of his chamber—late into the night when no prying eyes or ears could see or hear—the burden of his sorrow was there for everyone to see. It was there, in the slump of his shoulders and the sadness in his eyes, the weight of Legion's grief. And the burden of his guilt. "I should have helped him get away, Papa," Legion said as he wiped his chin on his shoulder to rid his face of tears. "He asked me to and I should have." In a dark part of Legion's mind, the demon that controlled his temper did a light jig on the warrior's soul and the man felt it in his heart. "Was it because I wanted her, Papa? Did I allow this to happen because I unconsciously thought she'd turn to me if he was sent into exile?" That was a question Legion had asked himself time and again since Conar's death.

"He offered her to me, Papa," Legion whispered as he touched his father's cheek. "When he thought he was marrying the Toad." A gentle smile touched Legion's trembling lips. "I forgot you didn't like us to call her that, did you, Papa?" Liza, Legion thought as he laid down his father's hand. She was the love of his life and he would have done anything for her until she had elected to marry Galen. "It wasn't right, Papa," Legion said from between clenched teeth. "It wasn't right and I'll not accept it as long as I live!" Legion thought of the conversation he had with his father only two days earlier when he had been commanded back to Boreas from Ivor. "Liza needs you," his father had said. "Go to her. Speak to her. Perhaps she will explain why she has done this thing you find so reprehensible." "She betrayed Conar," Legion growled. "Conar is dead, son." "Not even a Widow's Year has he been gone!" His father put out a comforting hand. "Did it never occur to you that she had reason for the Joining this soon?" "There is no reason this side of the Abyss that is good enough for what she's done!" No amount of cajoling from his father could make Legion go to Liza. He had told his father he would not stay under the same roof as her and her ill-begotten husband. But Legion had been trained from childhood to do what was right, to uphold the law and he knew now he would have no choice in the matter. He would be forced to swear fealty to the new king and the woman who was his queen. "If I had only known what they were going to do, Papa. If either of us had known what Tohre had planned for Coni, I would have slit Galen's miserable throat! To have Liza with that bastard…" Legion squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, god. What did I help do? What did I do?" Wild, debilitating grief shot from Legion A'Lex. He hung his head and great racking sobs erupted from his body. *** When Legion left his father's room an hour later, Galen was waiting for him on the stairs. He tried to pass the man, making the decision to ignore him until he was forced to accept Galen as the new ruler of Serenia. Galen put out a restraining hand to stop A'Lex. "Have you been to see Liza?" "No," Legion snapped, shaking off the hand "But you are going?" "No!" "You refuse to do so?" "Aye." "Then I command you to go see her!" "Command all you want!" Legion snarled and tried to continue down the stairs, but Galen stepped in front of him. "I demand you…" Legion shoved the Prince, almost tumbling him down the stairs. "Demand all you want, McGregor! I will not do it!" Galen's face turned bitter. "I will be your King one day, A'Lex! You had best start learning to obey me!"

Legion's upper lip curled back from his teeth. "You will never be a true king of mine! I may well renounce my citizenship the day you take the throne!" A'Lex pushed past him and continued down the stairs. The Prince was of a mind to call the guards, to have them bring back the bastard, in chains, if necessary, but he knew Liza would never forgive him for it. Galen looked up the stairs, saw his father's door slightly ajar and wondered how much the old man had heard. With a sigh, he headed up the stairs. *** Teal, Thom, Storm, and Sentian were already seated on their horses, waiting for Legion. They knew he'd gone to speak to his father. He'd sent word that they would be leaving once more for Ivor and wondered what was taking him so long. Lin Dixon was speaking quietly to them, begging the men to talk to Legion, to make him stay. "You've got to reason with him," Lin pleaded. "Our lady needs to see him." Sentian shook his head. "His mind's made up." "He can unmake it!" "You know," du Mer remarked, his voice snappish, "I am growing to detest that man." He was watching a rider dismount by the stables. Lin glanced at whom du Mer meant. "Lord Brelan's been a comfort to the lady." "Think you anyone here cares whether he has been or not?" Teal grated. It was at that moment that the giant, dull-toned Temple bell—the largest of the twelve hanging in the bell tower over the Tribunal Hall—began to chime. Every movement in the courtyard ceased. Every hand stilled. Every breath held. Every heart skipped a beat. "Sweet Merciful, Alel," Storm whispered. "The King is dead!" The hair on Teal's forearm rose. He sucked in his breath. "By all that's evil. Galen is king!" All around, men and women were going to their knees, their voices raised in mourning, but the men who sat their horses could only stare in sudden disbelief at the bell as it swung back and forth. "The vultures are scurrying already!" Sentian snarled, thrusting his chin toward the Temple. Three members of the priesthood, Kaileel Tohre included, hurried from the steps and into the keep, their robes fluttering behind them as they ran. Tolkan Coure walked behind with dignity and ill-concealed contempt for the keening going on around him by the kneeling people in the courtyard. His hooded gaze swept over Teal du Mer and a smile as evil as it was vile briefly stretched the thin lips. "Do you think Legion will stay now?" Storm asked Teal. "I doubt it. Galen will want to be crowned right away. He's been wanting this a long, long time." He looked up at a shrieking of metal and flinched. The King's pennant was being lowered. It would be flown upside down until three days after the state funereal at which time Galen's would be run up in its place. "He couldn't wait, could he?" Thom growled, watching the pennant being reversed. "I never noticed Her Grace's pennant," Sentian said quietly. Liza's personal pennant flew just below her husband's on Galen's staff. When she had been Conar's wife, her pennant had flown beside his on a staff of its own. "Beneath him," Storm grunted. "That says it all, don't it?" On a third staff flew the smaller blue pennant of the new Prince Regent. It fluttered softly in the breeze and seemed to

call attention to itself more than did the others. "I'm glad he didn't live to see this," Teal said. No one needed to ask whom he meant. *** Hern Arbra, on his way back to Gerren's room, stopped still in his tracks as the death bell began its knell. His strained face looked far older than its sixty-odd years. "The gods help us." In his heart, he knew he shouldn't have left Gerren. He should have been with his friend when the Gatherer came. "Be of good heart, Hern," the wind whistled around him. "You did well by me." Hern lifted his head and stared into the far corner of the corridor. "Moira?" he called, but the gentle voice he had known and loved so well did not speak again. It did not need to. An old warrior's heart had been eased and his conscience soothed. *** "I will not stay here, Brelan!" Legion shouted and would have made past him if Brelan had not put out a hand to stop him. "No matter what your feelings for Galen and Elizabeth, you owe Papa your loyalty. Dyllon and Coron will want to see you when they arrive." "They can ride to Ivor just as easily if they want to see me!" Brelan sighed. "Legion, Elizabeth has asked that you be one of the pallbearers. If you won't do it for her, will you not do it for me? For Papa?" His face took on a strange look. "For Conar?" Legion glowered. "You play dirty, Saur." "Don't let your anger cause more pain for this family." A mulish look passed over Legion's bearded face. "Who else will be pallbearers?" "Hern, of course. Me and you. Also, Coron, Dyllon and Cayn." A faint smile lit Brelan's face. "Papa left instructions that he wanted Teal to sing the funereal mass for him." "Good thing he didn't ask me to, huh?" came the broken reply. "No one would ask that of you, Legion," Brelan replied, smiling sadly. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Believe me…noone!"

Chapter 12 Galen handed the babe back to Gezelle and sat on the foot of his wife's bed. He waited until the servant was out of the room before he spoke. "He will easily pass as my son." Liza regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Galen, you promised —" "I promised I would care for him as I care for you, and I will." He smiled gently. "I really do love the little brat, you know. Heis my flesh and blood, sweeting."

"Why is it I don't trust you, Galen?" she asked, watching him with a deep intensity. "Because I have never really given you reason to do so before now. I am finding your trust hard to come by, Liza." He looked away. "I hope one day I will win your confidence." "Perhaps," she murmured, glancing at the single pink rose he had brought to her. "You will be crowned queen of Serenia in two days. Have you chosen a gown?" He reached out to touch her leg but she moved her foot. "I loved King Gerren. Knowing why I shall be crowned saddens me. I have no thought of gowns or such." She drew up her legs so he would not be tempted to try to touch her again. There was deep hurt in his voice. "Is it for that reason or is it because it will be me who will be king at your side?" She glanced at him. "It has nothing to do with you. I knew you would be king one day. It came sooner than I had anticipated, that's all." Galen looked at the coverlet over his wife's legs. "You may not believe this, Liza, but I loved my father. I will miss him, too. Even though I am king now, I am the same man I was." He flinched at her snort. "Liza, please—" "By right, you are now King, and I shall not shame you. I will hold to my bargain. But don't expect more from me than what I have already agreed." He walked to the window. "I will have our things moved into Papa's room this evening. Will sleeping in there bother you overmuch?" Liza ground her teeth. She could no longer put off sleeping in the same bed with the man. Her pregnancy had been a good enough excuse during the last two months, but now, she could no longer use it to deny him. She looked about the room where she and Conar had slept, made love, conceived a child. The room held memories that tormented her day and night. "I will like it well enough, I suppose." Perhaps, she thought, there will be no ghosts in that other bed to haunt me. "Brelan is sitting on that damned fountain again," Galen sighed. It had become a joke to Galen. Rain or shine, sleet or snow, day or night, the man could be found sitting on the fountain, staring into space or up at Liza's room. "Did you send Legion and the others away?" she suddenly asked. He turned to look at her; the smile vanished from his lips. "You know I didn't." "They hate me now even more." She bowed her head and felt the sting of tears. He ached to take her in his arms, but knew she would not permit it. "I have no love whatsoever for that bastard and his cronies, but if it would make the sadness leave your eyes, I will bring him back myself. I'll bring them all back and make them come to see you!" She shook her head. "They don't want to be here. They don't want to see me or my son. They could not have made their feelings more clear if they had sent an engraved announcement. Just leave them be." He knelt beside the bed and craned his head to look into her eyes. He wasn't surprised to see tears easing down her cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to wipe away those silver droplets, to touch her, to comfort her, to make the world right for her. "Tell me what will make you happy, sweeting. Whatever it is, I will do it for you." "What I need, you can not give." Galen's forehead wrinkled. "You loved him that much?" He wasn't sure if he was angry or frustrated. Or just plain jealous. "He was my life. Can't you see that?" Her lips trembled. "Without him, I am nothing. I want nothing. I have nothing, save my son. All that I have ever wanted, I have had." Her head lowered. "And lost."

He stood, his heart breaking. It had all been for nothing. For nothing. Such pain and misery, even death, for nothing. "You will never feel that way about me, will you?" "No." A great sadness welled up inside him. He felt himself perilously close to tears. He had suffered, as Conar had suffered, but she cared not a whit. He had been tortured in Conar's place, at Tohre's hands, but she dismissed it. He had known just as much pain as his brother in the Abbey, and yet his pain had been nothing compared to what he felt at that moment, knowing she would never turn to him for anything. "If I could bring him back to you, Liza, I would." He walked to the door and turned to see her watching him. " I love you that much." His voice broke as he turned away from her, stumbling from the room before she could see his tears of bitter regret. *** The air around him was hot and stagnant, smelling of earth and loam, cedar and salt. He opened his eyes to darkness so total no shred of light could be seen. He moved on the bed and heard the swish of satin, moved his fingers and gathered a handful of silky material. His brow furrowed. No, it wasn't satin; the material was coarser, thicker. He caressed it with his fingers and decided it was heavy canvas of some sort. He plucked at the material, worried it in his hands, and then sighed. It didn't matter what kind of coverlet they had thrown over him. He let his body relax and savored the feeling of sleep curling at the edges of his senses. He turned his cheek into the pillow and thought it must be a moonless night. He had a fever, he thought, for he was very warm, so burdened down with the weight of oppressive air. It pressed against him, cloying with the damp smell of rotting timber. Timber? His eyes flew open and widened. His hands came up toward his face to wipe at the blackness, but when they were only at chest level, they slammed into a hard obstacle above him. They searched, grasped, spread out over the hard canopy only a few inches above. "No," he whispered. He pushed. There was no give in the hard covering. He pushed again, harder. The canopy held. Full realization of where he was and what had been done to him hit him like the split of lightning. "God, no!" he screamed, clawing at the wood, tearing into the grain with his grasping fingers. He shoved with all his strength against the barrier between him and life. "Help me!" he pleaded, straining to push the barrier away. "Somebody please, help me!" He could feel the air leaving his lungs, could hear himself gasping for air. "Please!" The strength was leaving his arms. "Legion! Teal! Somebody, please!" He could feel a scream tearing up through his vitals. He didn't try to stop it. It bellowed forth, loud and sustained. "Galen! Galen!" Brelan shouted at his brother who was clawing at the air around him. "Wake up, man!" He slapped Galen, leaving a vivid handprint along the unshaven jaw. "Get me out!" Galen screeched, trying to push at the imaginary lid above him. "Get me out!" "Wake up!" Brelan shouted again and shook Galen hard enough to bang the man's skull into the headboard with a loud crack.

A glazed, terrified look spread over Galen's face. He was stunned to see Brelan standing over him, a look of pure hatred on his face. "What the hell's the matter with you?" Brelan growled. "I saw him, Brelan!" Galen was trembling so hard the bed was shaking. "I felt what he felt." Brelan's lip curled. "Make some sense, man! Who are you talking about?" Galen brought his hands up and over his face to hide. Through his fingers, his voice was muffled and shuddering. "We buried him alive. We buried him alive." "Guilty conscience, King Galen?" Saur taunted. He turned on his heel and stomped from the room, slamming the door behind him. Galen sat up in bed. When he brought his trembling hands down to his sides, he clutched at the silken sheets. "What have I helped do?" he whispered. "My god! What did I help do to him?"

PART III: Chapter 1 As is taken from the Journals of Tambor de la Rue, Historian: In the first year of the reign of King Galen Nicolai McGregor of Serenia, a great tidal wave of malcontent surfaced among the people of the Four Zones. Taxes increased by forty-five percent; new land laws were enacted that gave two-thirds of the existing farm lands and orchids to the Temple; laws regulating land ownership and use were strictly governed by the Tribunal, the legal arm of the McGregor monarchy. Any land confiscated, for whatever reason, by the Tribunal, was kept as alandholding for the Temple. Agents of the Temple purchased mortgages and, upon default of the owners, homes and lands were foreclosed upon without notice. Ships and wagons, cattle, horses, and all manner of personal property used in the day-to-day course of a man's livelihood were not spared confiscation upon the settlement of a debt to either the Temple or the Tribunal. If taxes could not be paid, that which the people owned was subjected to seizure by agents of the crown. Marriages became arrangements sanctioned only by the Tribunal and petitions for such not meeting with the approval of the Arch-Prelate of the Wind Temple, Tolkan Coure, were denied. The rigid laws governing such petitions were harsh and often stringent. Marriages for love were no longer allowed; only those alliances that would benefit the Temple, the Tribunal or the King's coffers, were given approval. Women were given a status just below that of the meanest serf and could not own property nor hold wealth of any form in their own names. Upon marriage, a female became nothing more than chattel to her husband's estate and could be sold into serfdom if she did not please him, or if he died in debt. Widows were cast out of their ancestral homes and were left penniless and at the mercy of whatever relative would take them in. If no one stepped forward to grant the woman protection, she could be subjected to arrest and taken to the nearest nunnery if she was beyond childbearing age. If she were young and reasonably pretty, the Tribunal either found a husband for her or sold her to highest brothel owner's bid. This practice ofbuying the contract of a widowed or unwed woman well over the age of consent became a standard procedure among those men who had never married or were themselves recently widowed. For a pittance of one hundred gold pieces, the man could petition the Tribunal to consider his request for marriage, whether the woman was

willing or not. If she refused once the Tribunal granted a petition, she could be imprisoned in a government-run brothel without hope of release. Children born out of wedlock were looked at in a particularly bad light by the Tribunal, for sex not permitted by express approval of the court had been outlawed in the first six months of Galen McGregor's reign. These unfortunate by-products of an illicit love affair were taken away from their mothers, the mothers sold into bondage, and the fathers, if known, severely taxed for their impropriety. Since the Tribunalists unanimously agreed such conceptions were the fault of the women, the laws were lighter upon the males. It was not uncommon for a woman found guilty of indiscriminate sex to be hung for her transgression. Unfortunately for the children so conceived, they were either placed in foster homes that were little more than slave-labor establishments, or they disappeared without a trace. Commodities such as food, clothing and water rations, coal and wood, were strictly controlled by agents of the Tribunal. Bribery was a way of life among these men, for those who sought the necessary articles with which to maintain a normal life within the Four Zones had no recourse but to use every means at their disposal in order to provide for their families. Finding oneself on the bad side of one of the Temple officials who regulated the commodities would insure a day's existence without food or fuel. As a result, theft, muggings and murder also became a way of life for those unfortunate enough not to have ready gold with which to pay for their necessities. Likewise, housing for the poor was denied those who were not gainfully employed. These homeless persons were often rounded up by press gangs and either sold into bondage on ships or farms, or were sent to prison colonies as forced labor. Those not fit to work for either mental or physical reasons, were executed as being socially unfit and unworthy to maintain life. Those members of the existing military at the beginning of King Galen's reign were relieved of duty and likewise interned in special camps where they were kept under constant guard, their families seeing them only through the coiled barbed wire that separated the camps from the villages. Those who refused to swear total devotion to the Temple and Tribunal were executed unless a family member paid tribute for their lives. If a high enough tribute was paid, the men would be released, but were not allowed to rejoin the military; nor were they allowed the possession of weapons. If found with any means of self-protection, the men were subject to immediate arrest and deportation. The two youngest royal brothers of King Galen—Prince Coron of Eurus and Prince Dyllon of Zephyrus—were relieved of their respectful Regencies and were placed virtually under house arrest, along with their wives and children. All those loyal to the younger princes were transported to Ghurn prison colony for internment. Just how the Tribunal came by their immense power in so short a time, and so effectively, at that, has never been known. There are those who believe the transition of power from King Gerren to his son, Prince Galen, began the downfall of the monarchy in Serenia. King Gerren had been an extremely popular monarch and a wise and strong leader. He was much-loved and respected by his people, feared by his enemies. Conversely, his son, Galen, was as despised as his father was loved. He was a weak and ineffectual ruler who bent to the rule of those much stronger than himself, namely the Tribunal. There was also some belief that Prince Galen was responsible in part for the death of his twin brother, Conar, and for that, his people hated him. Prince Conar McGregor, the rightful heir to the throne of Serenia before having his rights abrogated by his father, had died at the hands of the Tribunal while under sentence for sedition and adultery. The young prince's marriage to Elizabeth Wynth was annulled, his lands, titles, and wealth confiscated by the Temple and his name expelled from the roster of the WindWarrior Society. But despite the charges against him—charges his followers refused to believe—his people still deeply loved and respected him and his death was a terrible blow to the freedom-loving people of his homeland. Little is known of the personal life of King Galen, but his monarchy was one of terror, death, and suspicion. His enemies were executed; his friends, few that he had, were watched constantly by the Tribunal. His wife, Queen Elizabeth, was kept virtually isolated from the goings on outside the keep at Boreas. The lady lived, it was once reported, ingentle imprisonment . She devoted her life to helping as she could with the social problems of her day, but had little authority to aid her suffering people. Since the borders between Serenia and her neighbors were closed not long after Galen McGregor's rise to the throne, the conditions within the Four Zones rapidly deteriorated as the years passed. Murder and robbery increased; brutality became commonplace among the soldiers who guarded the citizens of every town. Complaints were ignored and many individuals, who vocalized their dislike of the new laws and lawkeepers, were arrested on the hearsay and

informing of others and sent to prison colonies abroad. Yet dissatisfaction among the populace was like a pot continuing to boil unobserved and with each new atrocity perpetuated against the people of the Four Zones, the seeds of rebellion were sown. The seed took root on the twentieth day of June in the year now known as the Year of the Deathwatch. It was on this day that the first of Prince Conar McGregor's illegitimate children disappeared. Until that time, the slain prince's offspring had been protected under Tribunal law since they had been born to a royal son of the McGregor clan. But an edict was sent out from the Temple revoking that protection. When it was learned the children had been taken by the Brotherhood of the Domination and scattered in Wind Temples throughout the Seven Kingdoms, a thunderous hue and cry went up from the people. Within a day's time, troops and mercenaries from each of the surrounding countries, including the unfriendly kingdom of Necroman, began to attack the temples in each of their homelands, searching for Conar McGregor's children. Before the week was out, the princes of Chale, Ionary, and Virago, in addition to the king of Oceania and the Emperor of Chrystallus, as well as those small Emirates along the Diabolusian border that had become friendly during King Gerren's reign, swelled the ranks of the freedom fighters with combat-hardened veterans from their own regiments. In the name of Conar McGregor, the resistance fighters raided caravans, slaughtered Temple Guards and Tribunal agents, rescued victims destined for sacrifice and burned to the ground any Temple not highly protected. In retaliation, the Brotherhood gathered together Conar McGregor's children at their monastery high atop Mount Serenia and murdered them. Their mutilated bodies were sent to each of the countries involved in the rebellion. Only the dead prince's oldest son, Wynland Luz, escaped the massacre. And then the holocaust began. Utilizing brutal sorcery and unstoppable demonic forces, the Brotherhood of the Domination managed to effectively grind the rebellion to a halt. Men and women suspected as being part of the resistance forces were pulled from their homes and executed on the spot. Citizens brought in for interrogations were never seen again. Those who held any kind of alliance—or were even suspected of complicity with the rebels—were summarily imprisoned or hanged. Land was confiscated, animals were seized, personal property was taken. The jails soon began to overflow. Hangings became a daily sight in every town and village. Severed heads were stuck on poles outside Temples as a warning to others not to balk at the even harsher restrictions that were now placed on the people. Taxes went higher and more and more children began to disappear until the body count of sacrificial victims rose to staggering heights. The rebellion lasted only six months. The Tribunal, in league with the Brotherhood of the Domination, began invading the surrounding countries and wrecking the same horrible vengeance on the citizens of those lands as they had upon Serenia. The first of the countries to feel the boot heel of the Tribunal was Virago, situated to the north of Serenia. It was the tenth day of July, almost at the stroke of midnight, that the troops crashed down upon the unsuspecting town of Haelstrom Point and slaughtered all but the two royal sons of King Marcus Hesar. The royal heir to the throne, Prince Rylan, and his brother, Prince Paegan, were wounded in the fray, but managed to escape with a contingent of their rebel followers. The Principality of Ionary was the next to fall. Prince Chase Montyne ruled alone since his mother and older brother had been poisoned only the day before. The attack of his homeland came while he was burying his kin. It was only through cunning and ingenuity that the personal guards of the young prince were able to hide him from the slaughter. With a troop of two dozen loyal men, Prince Chase Montyne fled to Necroman. Chale Principality fought hard against their invaders, but their Prince, Tyne Brell, a swordsman of some note, was deathly ill at the time of the attack and was taken into custody by the Tribunal guards. A week later, he managed to escape, but was not able to return to his homeland. Thankfully, he had not been there to see his wife and children slain, his family home of Briarcliff Keep laid to waste. Chrystallus, alone, never fell into the hands of the Tribunal. Much has been written about the invasion of Oceania. Why Queen Medea was not able to use her considerable magik to stop the destruction of her country will forever be a mystery to historians. There are many theories as to why she had not foreseen the terrible danger lying in wait for her and her people. One such theory has it that, during that particular time, Queen Elizabeth of Serenia, Queen Medea's daughter, lay near death while striving to give birth to King

Galen's second son. The child did not survive and the Queen, herself, nearly succumbed. Such being the case, it would seem likely that the Queen of Oceania, no doubt concerned about her daughter's safety, had been unmindful of her own. Had her sons, Prince Grice and Prince Chand, been home at Seadrift Keep at that time, they, too, would have met the fate of their parents and sisters. On the seventh day of April of this year, the rebellion was put down with the capture of the last two remaining rebel leaders. History will show how devastating the war has been for, even now, the damage is still being repaired throughout the kingdoms. Most of the rebels are in prison, some have died, many are still missing. Among those are the two youngest sons of King Gerren McGregor, Princes Coron and Dyllon, and Wyndon Luz, the oldest illegitimate son of Prince Conar McGregor. It is a harsh rule under which we live and the times are growing harsher still. Should you be reading this history, pray for us. Pray, also, that one day there will come another Overlord to lift us out of this terrible darkness. Written this 14th day of May In the Year of the Raven

Chapter 2 The dream came again. She awakened, her black hair plastered tightly to her sweating neck, her heart racing as she gasped for breath. He took her in his arms and crooned to her. She bent her head against his shoulder and cried. Cried for her losses; cried for the losses to come. She had never thought her homeland with its mighty military and shrewd leaders could ever be invaded. She had thought Kaileel Tohre to be swallowing up the lesser, least-protected countries surrounding the borders of Serenia. Whatever it was she had thought, or not thought, at the time, she had not suspected anything of what was to follow until she was in her bearing-down pains with Galen's son. In her pain, she could see the great battlements of her family keep, Seadrift. Could hear the arrows sing, see the burning pitch flow from the walls. She flinched as the thud of heavy stones catapulted to land. She could sense her mother's entreaties to their ancient goddesses for help, could feel her warrior-mother's despair when no one answered. It had come too late. Perhaps too much had already been asked of the Great Lady. It didn't matter now, she thought with hopelessness. As her dead son was thrust from her body, she had seen her precious mother fall, an arrow through her chest, a black crystal dagger, the sacred weapon of the Multitude, still clutched in her small hand. She could hear her sisters' chilling screams as they were raped, torn apart by Kaileel Tohre's army of hand-picked brutes. She could almost smell her father's and brothers-in-law's blood as it flowed scarlet red over the rich marble of her family home. She had closed her eyes and wept, the babe still attached to her by its umbilical cord. Her grieving was stilled by the death all around her—her family's and her child's. The nightmare had began that night and she suffered through it every night since. Ironically enough, Galen's nightmares ceased that very same night. "I am so sorry, Liza," Galen told her. She clung to him. Not out of love, for there had never been love for this man and never would be. She clung to him for the strength his betrayal gave her. She thought of him coming to her on the day her family had been massacred, and she could not hold back the bitter resentment that flowed through her. Galen had entered the room, pain and fury etched on his handsome face. He had known what Tohre had planned for Serenia, had been a party to everything the man had done over the six months of the war. He had actively supported

most of it, for he craved the power promised him by the blending of the lesser kingdoms with his own. But knowing how the fall of his wife's homeland would effect her, effect their unsteady marriage, he had been against the invasion of Oceania. He had argued to no avail, and when he learned of the slaughter of his father-, mother-, sisters-, and brothers-in-law, he had screamed his outrage to the Tribunal. "I knew nothing of what they planned, Liza!" he told his wifelater. "I swear. They never once said anything about invading Oceania!" She had lain in her blood-soaked bed, her dead son lying on her belly and stared at him, the knowledge of his complicity in her family's death stamped on her pale face. "Liza, please!" he begged, falling to his knees beside the bed. "You must believe me! I had nothing to do with what happened to your family!" Healer Cayn looked down at his king with hatred. "Get out! She does not need your lying mouth to worsen her pain!" Galen glanced at the man standing above him. "You have to make her understand, Cayn! I didn't know anything like this would happen!" "You could have saved them," she accused. "Liza, no," he moaned, reaching for her hand. It was cold as ice as he brought it to his lips. "I swear on Conar's life…" She jerked her hand from his grip, her lips drawn back in a snarl. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out and stay out!" Cayn jerked Galen to his feet. "You heard her! Get out!" It was while she glared at her husband with murder that the first pain ripped through her belly and she turned white as snow. Her hands dug into the coverlet and her eyes jerked to Cayn. Without realizing he did so, Cayn shoved his king as hard as he could and bent over his patient. "Cayn?" she cried, feeling as though her insides were being torn from her. "Oh, my god!" Cayn whispered. "There's another babe!" Galen had been smashed into the wall beside his wife's bed and he stared down at her with horror on his face. He could not credit what he was seeing as Cayn spread Liza's legs. Galen watched his son thrust into the world. "It's alive!" Cayn cried as he guided the babe onto his mother's belly. "This one is alive, Highness." He looked into his queen's face. Liza could not move. She was panting from pain and barely heard the words. "Don't let him die, Cayn," she begged. "Don't let this one die. It's the gods' will he live!" Galen slumped down the wall and buried his face in his hands. "Twins," he whispered through his fingers. "Twin boys." One dead, one alive. Liza named the babe that had died Nathan; her surviving son she named Codian. "The same dream, sweeting?" Galen asked her now as he stroked her damp forehead. Liza nodded and pushed away from him. She turned her face into the pillow. Galen understood. He no longer slept with her, had not since the murder of her family, but he came to her room when the nightmares struck, as it had this night, and held her. It was the only comfort he could give. The only comfort she would allow. "Will you be all right?" Liza nodded again, but would not speak. He sighed. "Call me if you need me."

Liza stared into the darkness after he left. She had never needed him. Not really. She had married the bastard thinking he would help keep her son—Conar's son—safe. "I hate you," she whispered. "I wish you dead." Her thoughts went back to the one and only time she had lain with him since their marriage four years earlier. It had been on a wild and weather-rampaged night when she had been terrified of the howling, clashing thunder and rain outside her window. She screamed as a bolt of lightning struck the side of her wall outside and he had come running. She clung to him, molded herself to him in stark horror as the lightning hit all around the keep. She did not notice his hands on her body, did not feel him moving aside her clothing. She felt his entry, but her mind had been on the storm. With little awareness of what he was about, she felt him moving against her, blinked at the moment he spurted into her rigid body. Her sorceress' instinct told her she had been seeded. For a wild moment, she meant to dispel it as soon as she could, but then her woman's heart dismissed the notion. Abortion was not something she could do. It was morally wrong…murder. So she had carried his child in her for nine months, six months of which had been war and hatred and destruction. Death had come to her family; life had also come. She would raise this surviving son of Galen McGregor's to be the man his father never would be. Now, alone in the darkness, her thoughts of hatred and revenge on Galen, she dug her nails into her palms and began the incantation for his death. *** Galen could take no more. When he left his wife's room, he went to the Temple where Kaileel Tohre was in residence. He waited impatiently for Tohre's personal assistant, Robert MacCorkingdale, to admit him into Tohre's office, and when he entered, he found the High Priest, now Cardinal of Law, sitting at his desk, a smile of pure evil on his cadaverous face. "You captured Brell, Montyne and the Hesar brothers today," Galen began. "I demand you spare their lives." Kaileel steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the apex. "Their lives, like their property, is forfeit to the Tribunal. You know that." Galen bent over the desk. "They are dear to my wife, Tohre. You have slain her family. Is it necessary to kill these men, too?" Tohre shrugged. "I need no royal heir to rally their scattered countrymen against me, Galen." "Then send them to the Labyrinth!" Galen shouted. "I would rather see them incarcerated than hung!" Tohre leaned back in his chair and stared hard at his old pupil. "You would rather send them to a living hell in that cesspool than see a quick end to their misery? Your revenge is far more brutal than mine." The evil man's smile grew wider. "I think such punishment can be arranged, Majesty." "That's not what I meant and you know it!" "Nevertheless, that is the way it sounded." Tohre lifted one blond brow. "And I am sure your precious wife will see it that way, too." "By all that is holy, Tohre, I will see you brought down!" Tohre shook his head, clucked his tongue. "I don't think you will take the chance of something happening to Conar's son, now, do you?" Galen's face drained of color. "What…what do you mean?" "Did you think I wouldn't know? The bitch thought I wouldn't, but surely you must have realized I would know the difference between your spawn and your brother's!" The skull-like face beamed. "Of course, she will soon know I am aware of who Corbin's true father is. I had my revenge on her long ago. I let her marry you thinking she was making the supreme sacrifice for her child."

Galen sat in the chair before Tohre's desk, stunned. "You wouldn't hurt the boy." Tohre stood and adjusted the sleeves of his robe. "He will soon be under my thumb. That should keep you and your wife in line. You have another son. Conar's would simply be a nuisance." "You can't do that!" Galen gasped, standing to confront the Priest. "She'll never forgive me!" Tohre laughed. "And you think I will lose sleep?" "Kaileel, please!" he begged, going to his knees, clutching Tohre's robe to his lips. "I'll do anything! Anything! Just don't take Corbin away. It'll kill her! It'll drive a wedge between us!" Tohre put a gentle hand on Galen's head, patted the coarse blond hair. "I don't care." Galen stared into Tohre's hate-filled visage. He understood at that moment exactly what the evil man had planned for his brother's son. "You can't." "I can, and I will. He will be mine in his father's stead!" "I won't allow it," Galen snarled, coming to his feet. He reached for Tohre, but was stunned as the man raised a hand and sent him flying backward across the room. He landed with a hard thud against the wall. "You can't stop me, Galen," Tohre told him pleasantly. "Soon, you will be replaced." He turned to his door, his hand on the knob, then glanced disdainfully down Galen's trembling body. "Your usefulness is coming to an end." Galen watched Tohre leave, heard the door click firmly shut with a finality that set his hair on end, and knew his days were numbered. "Oh, Liza," he cried, his heart breaking. "I have failed you again." Days later, swallowing his pride after the child was taken, he went first to Brelan and then to Legion at Ivor Keep, begging for their help in getting the boy back. He didn't need to tell Brelan how important it was. Legion and Du Mer promised to return to Boreas, but Galen doubted there was anything either of them could do, and although Liza wept and raged against it when told her son had been taken by Tohre, there appeared to be nothing she could do, either. "You are responsible!" she yelled, her hands curled into claws. She would have gone for his eyes had Brelan not grabbed her. "You son-of-a-bitch!" "We'll get him back somehow," Galen promised. "How?" she screamed. He shook his head. "I don't know, yet, but we will." "What do we do?" Legion asked when he arrived at Boreas that next day. "I don't see anything wecan do," Brelan answered. It had taken Galen a long time to realize how much both his half-brothers loved Liza. Once he had, his jealousy had almost signed a death warrant for the two men, but his conscience would not allow it. He had simply hired extra spies to watch them. Never had anything untoward happened when Liza was with Brelan, but Galen's jealousy was ripe and hot in his gut. "Tohre gave me warning that I might not be around to help you find a way to retake Corbin," Galen told his half-brothers. "I think he means to have me assassinated." Brelan shrugged. "You're useless, anyway." Galen looked up at the room he and Liza had first shared when they had married, and then his gaze went to Brelan. "I know why you spend so much time here, Saur. I know how you feel about her." "I've never tried to hide it." Galen turned to Legion. A'Lex met his gaze. "She's an easy woman to love."

Galen nodded. "I know your love for her will sustain her when I am gone." He lowered his head. "She has never wanted mine." "There was only one man whose love she wanted," Legion said. "You helped destroy him." "I know," Galen said, his voice breaking with pain. "I wanted his love, too." His crying was like a torrent, a bursting dam. "I tried to protect his son." He seemed to diminish before their very eyes, to shrink. "I promised him I would look after her and I have failed him, as well!" Brelan looked at Legion. When had Galen promised their brother anything? "He'll blame me for this," Galen wept, tears running down his ravaged face. "He'll curse me." There was nothing Brelan and Legion could say. They left Galen sitting forlornly on a garden bench, his shoulders slumped with misery, and heard his last words. "I'm sorry, Conar," Galen cried. "I tried." *** Five days later, Galen was sitting by his window, his thin shoulders sagging with fatigue and fear. He had not slept for two days. They would try for him soon; he could feel it. It could be today, this evening, this night; it could be a week from now. He had lost almost twenty pounds and his six-foot frame was gaunt and stooped. His hands shook, his voice trembled because he was hungry, but he dared not eat unless he prepared the food himself. He couldn't look anyone in the eye for fear they were there to slip a knife in his ribs. He looked instead at their hands. Every sound made him jump, every stranger who crossed his path made him anxious. He didn't know from what quarter death would find him; he only knew it was actively seeking him out. His days were spent alone, his nights, in a locked and sealed room. But soon, all that would be over. He could feel it. "Galen?" she called to him and he got wearily to his feet and walked to her bed. "Aye, Sweeting?" He loved her with all his heart, the only other living thing he had ever loved. "No one can touch you here. Do you wish to sleep awhile?" Galen smiled at her. Her face was still the lovely oval it had always been with its long thick ebony lashes, upturned nose, and high cheekbones. Her long silky hair was as black as midnight. She was a bit too thin of late, her face a touch too narrow, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the world. Sometimes her voice was actually soft when she spoke to him, as it was now. "Come and lie down," she told him, patting the bed beside her. "I'll keep watch." He knew she wanted him dead, prayed for his death. He could see it in her eyes, but he didn't think she would be the one to do it. Neither would she stop it if it came looking for him when he was with her. "I love you," he whispered. Liza shrugged with disinterest. "So you've told me." He went back to the window to stare out into the rosy rays of dawn. "I will take good care of our son, Galen." He nodded and sighed. Something thumped against the bedchamber door. He stiffened. Was it to be now? Here in the very room in which his precious wife lay? He would not let that happen. "Are you afraid, Galen?" she asked. Her voice was pleasant, no more inquisitive than as if she had asked him the time of day. "Very much."

"Good. I am sure he was, too." He looked at her. "I know he was." Liza turned her back to him and gripped her pillow beneath her cheek. "Goodbye, Galen." "Goodbye, my love." He walked to the door, opened it, then looked back at her. She was everything to him. Nothing else had come to mean what she had. He loved her, he needed her, he would miss her, for he knew where he was going to spend eternity, she would not be there. "Close the door, Galen. There's a draft. Galen didn't answer. He went to his brother's old room, opened the armoire door and stepped through to the secret passageway to the grotto. With any luck, he would be long gone from Boreas Keep before anyone knew he was missing. He took the passageway to the wine cellar, found the secret door, made his way through the cobwebs to the underground pool, and then stopped. His luck had ran out in the very place where his own men had captured his twin. He was not surprised to see Tohre's men standing before him. Tymothy Kullen grinned. "Going somewhere, Highness?" His life's blood ran into the milky green waters of the grotto, soaked into the thick white sand where his brother had been so savagely beaten, stained the spot where Corbin McGregor had been conceived five years before.

Chapter 3 Young Prince Corbin Alexi McGregor was four years old when Tymothy Kullen and his men murdered his uncle. The young prince was ensconced in the same room in the Wind Temple at Corinth where his father had been before him. On the eve of his sixth birthday, he would leave Corinth for the Abbey of the Domination high in the Serenian mountains. The boy showed no fear of the Priests who had abducted him, for he had never known anything but love and gentleness since his birth. But his terror upon the arrival of Tolkan Coure at the Wind Temple transmitted itself to his mother in a flash of gut-wrenching agony and the queen rushed to Kaileel Tohre. "He'll not bother the child." Tohre her in the eye. "He'll not touch the boy. Ever!" "I want my son back!" she screamed. "His father is dead. You had him murdered. Now Corbin is being terrorized by that bastard, Coure, and I want him brought back here!" "It matters little what you want, Madame. Corbin will stay at the Wind Temple until he is of age to be sent to the Monastery." Her nerve almost failed her. She could see the smug satisfaction in the reprobate's hooded eyes as he glared at her with contempt. And the truth hit her like a bolt of lightning. "You knew all along?" she whispered. "From the moment you accepted Conar's seed into your filthy body." Kaileel regarded her with interest. "You could have saved yourself a most unwanted marriage to a man you detested if you had but known that I knew." Her face turned pale. She gripped his desk to keep from toppling over. "So you will torment the son as you did the

father." Her lips quivered. "You will abuse him as you did Conar." "It is not abuse, woman; it is instruction." He flicked his reptilian gaze over her. "Something you could never hope to understand." Liza shook her head. She had watched his power increase until he had one day outgrown the robes of Archbishop of Law; he had proclaimed himselfCardinal of Law . She knew he wouldn't stop there. His eyes were on the position held by Tolkan. It was only a matter of time until the old Arch-Prelate died. Tohre would see to it. "What now, Kaileel?" she asked, shoulders slumping. "Return to your quarters and wait for the new marriage contract to be signed." Her head came up. "Did I fail to mention I have your next husband already picked out, Highness?" His taunting laugh was maniacal. Her lips could barely move. "Who?" Tohre smiled. "Someone you will approve of this time." He sat behind his desk and rested his chin in his hand. "Someone more suited to your tastes than Galen McGregor." "Who?" Her voice quivered; her body trembled; her heart thumped wildly in her chest. "Galen was detested by our people," Kaileel said as though he were lecturing her in the politics of the day. "He was loathed, really. We need someone whose hand will be gentle with his people. Someone whose honor is above reproach. A man whose swordhand is as strong as his sense of duty and patriotism. A man our people can look up to, admire, love." He leaned back and looked at her with a steady, unwavering smirk. "A man we can control because we have something precious to him as hostage for his good behavior." Liza felt sweat running down her sides and thought she might well be sick on the desk. "Sit down, Highness," he told her softly, indicating a chair. "You don't look at all well." "Who, Tohre? Who will you force me to wed?" "Legion A'Lex, Highness." Liza's breath caught in her throat. "Legion?" Tohre threw back his head and laughed. Tears of mirth filled his eyes when he looked at her. "If you could see your face, woman!" "What game are you playing now?" she hissed. He held up his hands. "No game! A'Lex is the eldest of the royal bastards. To our knowledge both Coron and Dyllon McGregor are dead, so no legal sons of the crown are alive to mount the throne. The people respect Legion, admire him. He was one of their rebel leaders until I threatened to have your head removed. He shaped up quite nicely after that, as did that bastard brother of his, Brelan Saur. I know you would prefer Brelan as your husband, but we must adhere to protocol and crown Legion king. I will have du Mer take you to Ivor Keep until the arrangements can be made and then you will return here for your wedding in six months, an adequate time of mourning for your late husband, don't you agree?" He shook his finger at her. "Be gracious about your upcoming nuptials, woman. I could give you to one of our many allies in Diabolusia." "And if Legion refuses such an…" Her lip curled. "…honor?" "He'll do what he's told. As will you, if you want to see young Prince Corbin safe." He smiled his evil taunt. "Once you are through, there will be nothing left of Conar's son but the wicked thing you have made of him." She raised her chin. "One day, Tohre, you will have to pay for all you have done to this family." "Not in your lifetime," he said sweetly. "I have no choice but to do as you want, but I will go to my grave hating you with a hate so virulent it will follow you

to hell!" Kaileel leaned forward. His thin face split into a grin so evil and full of malice, it was deadly in its own right. His pale face shone with triumph, while his long, red-tipped nails drummed softly on the desktop. "And do you give your word for Legion A'Lex and Brelan Saur? If not, they might find themselves in Labyrinth Colony with"—he grinned—"other men of their acquaintance." Liza put her face in his, despite the compelling urge to spit in that ugly visage, and her voice was as cold as the glaciers on the Serenian Alps. "I promise I will see to it Brelan and Legion and all those you have spared to this day will give you no problem, as long as Corbin is not touched by Tolkan Coure." Kaileel raised one thin, blond brow. "Oh, he won't be. Corbin is mine." He lifted his chin. "But you say nothing about me touching your boy. Does that not concern you?" "You can't touch him until he's reached his sixth birthday. Even you have some sense of honor." Her face twisted with loathing. "You think you can succeed with Corbin where you failed with his father." "True," Kaileel conceded. "I'll not lay a hand on him until he is of age, according to the laws of the Brotherhood." His face filled with hate. "Tolkan would; I won't. That is why Tolkan will be eliminated before the week is out. But I would think you would worry about what happensafter these next two years are up and Corbin reaches his sixth birthday." "Two years is a long time, Tohre. Who knows what can happen in two years?" *** Eight days after Galen McGregor was laid to rest beside his mother and father in the family vault, it stormed. It was a harsh spring storm filled with jagged lightning that spat from the heavens in thick bolts of death. Loud crashes of thunder shook the ground and the air filled with the cloying stench of ozone and burned wood. Rain lashed against the windows of Ivor Keep and ran in ever-increasing rivers of oozing mud over the grounds in the courtyard and beyond the protection walls. Inside Ivor Keep, chandeliers swayed and curtains billowed from unseen drafts of air that managed to leak in around the windowsills and caulking. Some windows were blown inward, the glass shattered over the carpets. The servants raced about to lash the shutters but the force of the buffeting wind hindered their work. Liza's fear of storms had not lessened over the years. If anything, those fears became worse. Galen had managed, as his brother Conar before him, to keep the horrors at bay; now there was no one to stop the wild beat of her heart, the trembling that made her body quiver from head to toe. Galen was dead, his untimely death fashioning a wall around her. She missed what little strength he had afforded her and the love he had professed was hers. She had held no care for him, but a sense of loyalty, and her once-given word, had nurtured in her a grudging respect for the man's attempt to make her love him. His constant devotion to her, and the love and care he had given Corbin, had made her feel guilty when he had been found slain in the grotto. He had slept with her only when the world had come too close to them both; he had asked nothing of her on those occasions save her arms around him in comfort. Iin return, he had given her all of him. Even though she could sense his pain, his guilt, she had been unable to give to him in return. But he had never pressed her. But she, huddled alone in her chambers, missed him this night. A loud crash of thunder shook the room. She could stand it no more. Her bare feet flew over the cold floor. She flung wide the door to her chamber, crashing the massive portal against the wall as she fled. She ran terrified through the night-darkened corridor, her whimpering lost in the loud cracks of lightning and the rumbling boom of thunder, and she found herself safe in the haven of a dear friend's arms. All the weeks and months of despair and helplessness had been dredged up with the storm. All her hopelessness surfaced in one wild moment of panic. She clung to him like a drowning woman seeking the arms of a rescuer and barely felt the arms that lifted her high against her savior. With her face buried in the thin wet silk of his shirt, plastered to his brawny chest by the rain, she blotted out the lightning. She wondered if he had been out walking, as was his wont in the wee hours of the night, and had been caught unprepared by the storm. "You should take better care of yourself," she whispered. "Don't worry about me. Just let me take care of you."

He carried her to his chamber and laid her down. Knowing prying eyes should not find them together, he locked the door, shooting the bolt into place, sealing out the world. He shrugged out of his wet shirt and tossed it on a chair. He fetched a towel, then came back drying his hair, his naked chest gleaming in the light from the hearth. "I got you wet," he said, looking down at her. She would have answered, but a shriek of lightning made her yelp. He rushed to her, gathered her in his arms and held her tightly. "Hush," he whispered. "It's all right. Nothing will happen to you, I promise." He smoothed the hair from her cheek and smiled as she buried her head against his chest when another flare of lightning lit the room. Though his breeches were soaked, he stretched out beside her and brought her trembling body close to his. It was his gentleness that took away the terror, the helplessness, the hopelessness. It was his presence and his soft voice that overshadowed the sound of the crashing storm. It was his arms that hid her from the fury of the gale building within her, and his brawny chest that blocked out the flashing light beyond the windows. And his love brought solace to her broken heart. It was not until dawn that his caring became more than just the comforting of a friend. She turned to this man, this brown-haired, brown-eyed friend, this wonderful protector, who had loved her for as long as she could remember. "Everything will be all right, Elizabeth." "Kaileel knows about Corbin." There was a faint pause in the man's breath. "I know." "What will we do?" She wept. He kissed the top of her head. "Get him back. I swear. Somehow we will find the way." "Make me forget, Bre," she asked, need brimming in her eyes. "For just this once…" And he did. His way of helping her beyond her pain became a wild, thrusting joy that left them both stunned with its intensity. Liza looked into Brelan Saur's soft eyes. This was Conar's brother, Legion's brother, Galen's brother. Now her lover. She conceived his child, had known it the moment it happened, just as the goddesses meant her to. He, however, knew nothing of the precious gift he had given her. "You have betrayed no one, Elizabeth. You are widowed. You are free to choose…" "Didn't Teal tell you?" "Tell me what?" "Kaileel has betrothed me to Legion. Legion will be crowned king." Brelan stiffened. "Not if I don't allow it!" Her hand went up to his cheek. "Legion is firstborn of the illegal sons, Bre. It is only right that he be king." "I don't give a damn about that!" he snarled. "You marrying him is out of the question!" "Itwill be him I wed, Brelan."

"By the gods, it will not!" Brelan got out of the bed. "I took you but a moment ago, or is my lovemaking so numbing you slept through it?" "You know I did not," she replied, reaching for him. "Brelan, please try to understand." "Understand what?" His handsome face twisted. "Why I must marry Legion." "Stop saying that!" He grabbed her. "I made love to you. Does that not count for anything with you, Queen Beth?" "Don't call me that," she begged, looking at him with hurt. "I love you, woman!" he said, his voice breaking. "I love you with all my heart and all my soul. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" "Aye," she said, tears shimmering in her eyes. "More than you will ever know." "Then why?" he asked, his own tears flowing. "Why won't you love me in return?" "I do love you. I will always love you, but not…" "Not as a husband!" he snarled, his hands tightening on her arms. "Is that it? Not as your husband but as a substitute for Conar McGregor when the mood hits you?" "Brelan, don't." "Tell me, Queen Beth: did you go willingly into Galen's bed as willingly as you came to mine?" "You know I did not." "But I'll wager you'll spread your legs for Legion easily enough, won't you?" She hit him, slapping at his arms and shoulders until he pinned her wrists to the pillow. "Oh, Brelan, how could you say such a thing?" With his heart breaking, he gathered her to him, his arms trembling with the ferocity of his emotions. "I have to do this, Brelan," she sobbed. "I have to." "I can take you with me. We can go…" "I can not leave my child! Don't ask it of me." For a long time he did not speak. When he did, she heard defeat in his tone. "Is that what you want?" "It is what must be," she answered. Brelan flinched. He had lost her again. *** Morning brought with it a gray, sodden day to fit the mood into which Brelan had slipped. As he walked in the rain, his hands shoved into the pockets of his cords, he felt the telltale beginnings of a cold seeping into his bones. His head ached almost as much as his heart and he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He came to an abandoned cottage just after noontime and knew he'd best get in out of the elements. The interior smelled of rats and decayed food; he didn't care. He gathered up what remained of a table and a few chairs, some old clothing and started a fire in the lopsided hearth. As the flames came to life, he sat with legs crossed, his chin propped in his palm, and stared into the fire. And thought of what had happened between him and Liza the night before. Her body had been so warm, her scent intoxicating. He had waited so many years to touch her breasts, taste her

nipples, drink from the fountain of her womanhood. The feel of her in his arms had been pure heaven and made him feel more of a man than any other woman's body ever had. The velvet of her sheath as he slid inside her had nearly brought a shout of victory to his lips, for he had dreamt of lying with her for as long as he could remember. Of possessing her, making her his. Now that he had, it was all he had imagined it would be. Her hands on him had been sheer ecstasy and had plied his flesh so sweetly, it was all he could do not to unman himself before he was able to take her. Her lips on his, her tongue swirling over his manhood had been nothing less than bliss. Though he had rammed into her as though his life depended upon it, she had met him thrust for thrust, her fingers gripping his hair, spurring him on to harder heights of passionate release. And when their climaxes came at the same moment, her cry had equaled his in strength and duration. He had branded her his for that moment in time and had hoped it would be forever. Now, he knew better. Still, she was everything to him, had been since childhood. His friendship with her brother, Grice, had survived bloody noses and chipped teeth just so he could be close to her. He would gladly lay down his life for her, do anything she asked, no matter how much her asking hurt him. And despite his love for her, he would help hand her into Legion's keeping, for he knew Legion loved her as much as he did. Brelan closed his eyes and sat before the fire, aching, hopelessly needing something he would never have. Desiring a woman who would never return the feeling. "Is this how you felt, Coni?" he asked, opening his eyes to stare into the leaping flames. "Is this how it hurt when you saw her in my arms in the stable?" Three times, Brelan thought. Three times he had given her over into the keeping of another. First Conar, then Galen, now Legion. What would transpire, he wondered, if something happened to A'Lex? Who was left for Tohre to hand her to? Me, he thought with a wild stab of hope shooting. But only if Legion A'Lex did not survive. It was a thought Brelan could not shake.

Chapter 4 Four years was a long time to hide, he thought. A long time. He looked into the bright sunlight, squinting at the sharp clarity of its piercing fire. He felt sweat running from his body, felt the dryness in his mouth, tasted the acrid tang of its bitterness. Gazing at the multitude of cuts and scrapes and bruises on his dirty feet and legs, his hands, his arms, he shook his head. There were welts, gashes, the beginning of some rash. A long rip in the side of one breeches' leg was caked with dried blood. One heel on the boots lying beside him was gone from the once-shiny leathers. He was covered from head to toe with dirt and accumulated filth and his body odor made him gag. He could feel movement on his scalp and knew he had lice. There was some black, sticky residue under

his chipped and broken fingernails and he remembered a headlong rush through blackberry vines that viciously pulled at his clothing and scratched him. Turning his head to his companion, he thought the man was no better off than him. He gently shook the other man. Tired brown eyes found his. Cracked lips tried to smile. "How close are they?" "Not far. They'll no doubt find us before nightfall, if not sooner." He heard the exhausted sigh, the giving in, the giving up. He sensed the fatalistic shrug of thin shoulders. The relentless sun had nearly blinded them both. They had not eaten for two days and it had been nearly twelve hours since they last had a drink of water, brackish though it had been. They were both bone-tired and terrified of what awaited them. "How many escaped, do you think?" the younger man asked. He lay on the hot sand and put an arm across his eyes to shield them from the glare of the midday sun, the heat. "Not many, if any at all." His companion lay down also, putting his head on his brother's shoulder, something he hadn't done since he was a boy of five or less. "We thought we could beat Kaileel Tohre." "We were wrong." "Others may still be fighting." "They'll lose everything just as we have." There was deep resentment, hard anger in the tired words and a kind of rapt sadness that overlay the helpless tone. A heavy sigh escaped the cracked lips. "Everything." "Do you think she'll be all right?" The question was rife with worry. "Legion will protect her. I have to believe he will keep her safe if he can." He sat up. He could hear the jingle of horse bridles close to them. Too close. "I miss her so much," came the youthful sigh. "I miss them all so much." The sound was louder now and the older man came unsteadily to his feet. He shaded his eyes and saw horsemen advancing toward them out of the sunset. A grim smile of resignation stretched his face. He reached down a hand to his younger brother. "It's time, Chandling." "Do you miss her, Grice?" Prince Chand Wynth asked. His mane of thick black hair was shaggy and dirty, hanging over the collar of his torn shirt. His thin face with its sharp chin was gaunt and pale. As he helped his brother to his feet, Prince Grice Wynth, now the heir to the throne of Oceania, ran a grimy hand through his own dirty black hair. "Aye, little brother. I miss her with all my heart." Brown eyes that normally would have sparkled with mirth were now hollow-rimmed with dark circles, the spark gone…perhaps forever. He was just a tad taller than his brother and he put his arm around the younger man and pulled him to his side. "We have to be brave for her." Chand raised his tired, aching head. "Conar endured his punishment," he answered, ignoring the frown on Grice's face at the mention of that name. "Aye, he did," were the last words he was able to speak before they were no longer alone. Both men stood wavering as the dozen or so horsemen encircled them, pinning them in, capturing the last two rebels of the resistance movement. After months of running, months of hiding, months of waiting, their time had come. Just as Conar's had. "You will be taken to the Labyrinth Prison Colony at Tyber's Isle where you will be incarcerated for life." They felt hard hands on their dirty arms and the words finally sank into their numb minds. It didn't matter, they both

thought. Nothing would ever matter to either of them again. These were only words and words could not hurt them. It was what would follow the words that would hurt them, degrade them, kill the spirit, if not the body. They drew back their shoulders. Grice looked the leader of this Temple Guard contingent in the face. Dirty and hungry they might be, caught and helpless, they were, but they were still of the royal house of Oceania. Grice Wynth was, by all rights, King of his homeland. He extended his hands to be manacled as though he was about to accept homage and fealty. His head rose high, his eyes became clear and alert, a gentleman even in defeat. *** A few miles to the west, two other men sat manacled together in the pouring rain of Virago. They huddled along with five others who had been captured in the week past. All were hungry, tired, filthy, hurt in some way. Thunder rolled above them. Cold wind sharpened its claws in their shabby clothing. Not one among them had any doubt where they were going. They could see the ship through the rolling rain. The soldiers among them had once harbored visions of a quick execution, but because of their ties to her, they now knew better. They wished with all their heart that death might find them yet. They couldn't look at one another. How foolish it all seemed now. There had never been a chance, not from the beginning, but they had had to try. For her. For him. For his precious children. Hours passed. The rains on the dock came harder from the cold sky. The ground became drenched; thick slides of mud squished under their backsides. The sound of muffled hooves splattering the mud caught their attention, and they turned their heads. Two men were thrown from the horses. Guards dragged them to the other huddled men by the docks. They were shackled to the nearest man. "Can you hear me?" one of the men asked the new arrivals after the guards had returned to the warmth and safety of their hut. "Aye." The voice was weak, but full of hate. "Did they tell you where you're going?" A humorless laugh echoed under the distant boom of thunder. "There was never any doubt where, friend; it was just a matter of when." "I don't suppose there are any others of the royal bloodlines left fighting, then?" a calm voice asked the newcomers. "I have heard the kingdoms of Necroman and Chrystallus have banded together to form a strong line of defense protecting their countries. The rest of us have met our end, I guess." Grice began to pray, something he did a lot of, as of late. "Don't I know you?" Chand asked, squinting through the pouring rain, looking at the man to whom they had been shackled. "Aye, Your Grace. The name is Sentian Heil. The man next to me is Ward Summerall. We were part of his Elite." Chand nodded. "How did you come to be caught? I thought you were with our sister at Ivor." "Tohre realized I was too much of a danger to him." "How so?" Grice asked.

"I was your sister's man." "I don't understand," Chand admitted. "It's not important. I'm no good to her here." His voice lowered. "Or where I'm going." "How's your eyesight, Grice?" an amused voice called. "Good enough to recognize you, Rylan Hesar," Grice snorted. "I see Chase Montyne of Ionary over there. Who's the runt beside you?" A guffaw of humor erupted and the man indicated shifted his weight in the oozing mud. "Screw you, Wynth." "Heard you were suppose to be one of the best swordsmen in the world, Brell." Grice drew up his knees and laid his head on them. He was tired. So very, very tired. Prince Tyne Brell of Chale thrust out his chin. "Iam the best." "Then how'd you get your ass caught?" There was a moment of silence before Prince Paegan Hesar of Virago answered for him. "He saved my life, Grice. Mine and Rylan's. The bastard who captured us didn't believe we were the heirs to the Viragonian throne. It seems a lot of men have died while claiming they were royalty." "Aye, royalty gets sent to prison. Ain't we lucky!" Prince Rylan Hesar, heir apparent to the throne, first cousin of the Serenian royal family, snarled. "If I'd known where I was going," Tyne hissed, "I'd have claimed I was a serf!" "Who's that asleep at the end of the line?" Chand asked. He sneezed and wiped his nose on his filthy shirt. He had caught a blazing cold. Chase Montyne looked at the man beside him. "I don't know who he is, but he ain't asleep. He's dead." Grice shuddered. They might all be dead soon. He hoped with all his heart that would be the case. The men continued to talk quietly among themselves as rain fell in ever-increasing force. They turned their gazes to the black-masts of the ship that rode at anchor near them and their hearts thudded painfully in their chests. They didn't need to be able to read the name on the bow to know it. She was theVortex . Bound for Tyber's Isle and the hellhole known as the Labyrinth. No food was brought to them. No water. No medical attention. No trip to relieve their throbbing bladders. They were prisoners, not royalty, not soldiers of the crowns of their homeland. They were now just so much flotsam in a sea of misery.

Chapter 5 Legion stood in the Temple doorway and watched his young nephew. He wondered for the hundredth time why he had never seen this likeness before. There was no way Corbin could be Galen's child, he was sure of it. The small head held tight blond curls. The little chin in the round face already showed signs of a cleft. And the eyes were as blue as Conar's had been. Looking at Corbin was like going back in time. Legion leaned against the wall and let out a ragged sigh. "How could I not have known?" Because you didn't want to know.

He guessed that was partially true. The clues had been all around. Liza's marriage to a man she hated, the babe coming early, Galen's abject horror when Tohre took the boy. Why had he not seen it? Because it was easier to blame her than to try to understand. A hand fell on his shoulder. He looked into Brelan Saur's face. "You knew." It was an accusation. Brelan nodded. "She asked me not to tell. If I had, you and I might well have gotten her to safety in Chrystallus with Aunt Dyreil. I should have listened to my heart, not my head." "She married Galen for nothing! Tohre obviously knew who Corbin was." "She thought she was doing the right thing. Who knows? Maybe she did." Brelan glanced at the boy as he sat with two Priests who guarded him night and day. "He hasn't been harmed." "Not yet." "Not ever, if we can do anything about it." Legion scowled at him. "He would have the child, if not the father. That makes me ill." "What it has all come down to is Conar, hasn't it? His wife. His children. The things we have done to try to protect his wife and his children." "And not a one left, save Corbin and Wyn, and only the gods know where that boy is." "I have bad news," Brelan said. "I'm not sure I can take any more bad news." "Grice and Chand were captured yesterday." Legion shook his head. "Alel help them." "Hern left this morning. I tried to stop him, but you know Hern. It wouldn't surprise me if he wound up at the Labyrinth." "Why?" Legion's voice was incredulous. "Why would he do such a thing?" "Sentian and Belvoir were captured, too. I guess he thinks he can help if he can get there." "And just how the hell would he accomplish…" Legion stopped, shook his head. "He'd do it despite hell and high water, wouldn't he?" Brelan grinned. "I would imagine." Running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, Legion's blue eyes were full of misery. "I wish I knew what had happened to Coron and Dyllon. I spoke with a man who says he saw them on theBoreas Queen , but I had Hern question the ship's captain. He denied knowing anything." A memory tugged at Brelan's mind. He tried to grasp it, but Legion's next question made the memory flee. "You know Tohre has set the wedding date for next Tuesday?" Concern creased Legion's handsome face. "And you know how I feel about your wedding, don't you?" Legion thrust his hands into the waistband of his breeches and stared at the floor. "I am very much aware." Brelan's voice had a hard edge. "And are you aware she is carrying my child?"

Legion flinched. Within the past few months the two brothers had become close, but to anyone looking at them now, that would not appear likely. Legion's face was hard, brittle; Brelan's look was full of challenge. "She is expecting your child?" "She is." There was belligerence in Brelan's tone. "It won't make any difference. Tohre will give her to me because I am firstborn." His look narrowed. "When did this happen?" "Does it matter?" Legion looked back at his nephew. "I suppose not." "I love her. I have loved her for a long time, but I suspect it has been the same with you." A sad smile touched A'Lex's hard mouth. "And she will always love Conar. We are poor substitutes, wouldn't you agree?" Brelan bristled. "Maybe to you, you are." Legion didn't want a fight and could see one hovering in Brelan's dark face. He shrugged. "Are you going to Ivor to fetch her back?" "Teal took her to Ivor and he'll be the one to bring her back!" "That's where it happened, isn't it?" "Tohre sent her under heavy guard to Ivor to get her away from me and you. He wanted her separated from anyone who could help her. He didn't count on me getting to her." A fire started in Brelan's eyes. "He'll never be able to keep her from me!" "You aren't coming to the Joining, are you?" Brelan's face turned granite-hard. "What do you think?" Watching his brother stride angrily away, Legion knew it wasn't him that Brelan was angry with. And he also knew his brother's pain ran deeper than his own, for come the following week, Liza would belong to him, not Brelan. Legion made his way to the keep's library. Closing the door behind him, he walked to the windows that looked out over the garden. "It's going to happen, Coni. Just as you wanted." Leaning his forehead against the cold glass, A'Lex closed his eyes and allowed the memory, one he had tried so hard to keep at bay, to come. "Find her for me," Conar asked. "When you do, I will betroth her to you." "You don't mean that!" Legion protested. "I will see her wed to no other man but you. I will have no other man touch her, but you." "Conar, I care for her. I think I may well be in love with her." "I've known that all along, Legion." "Are you sure this is what you want?" "Aye, I am sure." "Then I will gladly accept her to wife if she will have me." "Liza will be yours," Conar prophesied.

Legion opened his eyes and stared at the thorn bush by the seagate. The twisted branches looked so forlorn. "I will take good care of her, Coni," he whispered. "On my honor, I swear to you, I will make her a good husband." Although his heart was filled with absolute joy at having Liza as his mate, he could not help but feel Brelan's pain. He knew the man loved Liza. Truth be told, so had Galen. "She is an easy woman to love, Coni." *** A light snow had begun to fall in the garden of Boreas Keep. The willow was bare, the shrubs denuded of leaf and bloom. The fieldstone pathway crunched beneath Brelan's boots as he stalked in a near rage to the fountain, his home away from home, and sat down, mindless of the accumulating snow. This was the only place he felt safe anymore. The only place where he could have peace of mind. He could feel the treacherous tears beginning again. Angrily he swiped at them and ground his teeth in impotent fury. What good are tears, anyway? They'd never helped before. He threw back his head to make them stop. "Is there no end to this?" he hissed. "Am I destined ever to lose her?" He could almost hear the roll of thunder, see the flash of lightning on the rain-drenched sky above Ivor Keep, even smell the sharp, acrid stench of the storm from long ago. He could see the gown she'd worn as she ran headlong down the corridor toward him. He could still smell the lavender scent of her perfume, feel the warm rush of her arms as she grabbed his waist to plaster her body against him. He could hear the wailing wind as it pushed against the mullion windows, could feel the cold draft sweeping around his legs. He looked around, half-expecting the snow to have turned to rain. He sighed. Memories could hurt worse than reality. He buried his face in his hands, his memories stronger than the pain he felt in his heart. "I love you, Elizabeth," he whispered as he remembered pulling her into his arms that night, lifting her, carrying her to his room. He could feel her tears on his neck, see himself placing her on his bed, lying beside her. It was there, near dawn, that his wildest dreams had been fulfilled. "Did I make you love me, Elizabeth?" he asked, his eyes opening to the quietly falling snow. "Even just a little?" He remembered sighing against the sweet tumble of her raven hair, wiping the tears from her face—tears for her loss, for her stolen child, for her dead. And when he filled her with his seed, she had called to him, but it had not been his name that had fallen with such sweetness from her lips. It had been Conar's. He knew she would never love him as he wished. He could see himself through her eyes and those eyes looked at him as she looked at Grice and Chand: as a brother, perhaps nothing more than a dear friend. For the rest of his life, he would hold sacred the night he had consummated his love for her. Though it meant little to her, it meant all to him. It was the one bright, shining joy of his otherwise lonely life and it would keep his love for her alive even after death had sealed his eyes. "I will love you as I will never love another. I will be yours for eternity." His gaze fell on the thorn bush by the seagate. The legend of the foolish lovers came back to him. "Are you punishing me for loving her, Alel?" he asked his god. "Is this my atonement for coveting my brother's wife?" A single tear drifted down Saur's handsome face and froze beside his lips. "Legion coveted her, too, and yet you gave her to him. You gave her to him, but would deny me. What kind of god are you that would love one brother over another? Don't I deserve happiness as much as Legion?" The thought of Legion lying beside Liza, holding her, making love to her, giving her children, hurt so badly, cut so deeply, Brelan could not stop the moan of hopelessness. He wrapped his arms around his chest, hung his head and wept bitterly for what would never be.

Chapter 6 "Brelan?" Teal asked. Saur looked up from his woodcarving. Teal Du Mer never looked at him with kindness, never smiled at him, but now he was smiling and his face was filled with happiness. "Have you been drinking, du Mer?" "I've had a quaff or two of some very fine Chrystallusian plum wine." Brelan turned back to the duck decoy he was carving. "I thought so." "Aren't you going to ask why I'm here?" Teal looked around at the hut where Brelan spent much of his time of late. The one room shack stood deep in the forest outside the keep, near Lake Myria. It wasn't a bad place, but it smelled of wood chips and damp rushes. Teal found it oppressive. Brelan shrugged. "I'm sure you'll tell me without me having to ask." Teal's face lost some of its happiness. "I'm offering you peace." "Why?" "Why not?" Brelan glimpsed up at the man and snorted. "Because you don't like me, du Mer." "That's because I didn't understand why you hung around Liza after her marriage to Galen." "And you understand why I did that now, eh?" Teal nodded. "Legion told me long ago who Corbin's father was. I can see why you wanted to be near her." "Do you, now?" "You're not making this any easier for me, Saur." "Life ain't easy, du Mer." He dug the knife into the tail section of the decoy and made a long, wavering line. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you what Legion sent me to tell you." "I didn't think you'd come here on your own," Brelan retorted. "Liza had your babe this morning." The blade slipped, ran down Brelan's thumb, and cut deep. He stared at the gypsy. Blood dripped to the rush-strewn floor, stained the wood carving, but he didn't seem to notice. "She…she…" He couldn't seem to get past that one word. "It happened so fast we barely had time to fetch Cayn. One moment she was standing by the window, the next she was bent over. Legion was going to carry her up to the bedroom, but he got no further than the settee in the library. Legion and Cayn delivered the babe about twenty minutes ago. We sent men looking for you, but I figured this was where you'd be. After a glass or two or three, I forget, of that very fine Chrystallusian plum wine, I came looking for you." It was the most words Teal du Mer had ever spoken to him. Brelan could only stare at the twin dimples indenting Teal's cheeks. He certainly couldn't have moved if his life depended on it.

"Is she…is the babe…" "Both doing well. Cayn said it was the easiest delivery he's ever been a part of. Mother and child are sleeping right now, but I would think you'd like to take a peek at your babe." Brelan felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He laid the knife and decoy on the table, becoming aware that his hand was bleeding. He looked at it as though it were alien. "Well?" Teal prodded, "aren't you going to see your new daughter?" Brelan's head came up. "Daughter?" "Six pounds or thereabouts. She's got a head full of curly black hair. Prettiest little girl I've seen in a long, long time. Liza named her Ceara." Teal smiled. "I like that, don't you?" "Daughter?" Teal laughed. "Go see your little girl, man!" He held out his hand to help Brelan up. Brelan took hold of du Mer's hand. He felt himself drawn up from the bench, but Teal didn't let go of his hand right away. "Congratulations, Brelan," the gypsy said. "Thank you?" Brelan managed to whisper. "That's usually the correct response, aye!" On his walk back to the keep, Brelan's mind was filled with wonder. He had always taken extra precautions to keep his seed from ever blossoming in his mistresses, wanting no child of his to come into such a foul world. He had always thought a child would be an encumbrance, an impediment to his carefree style, for he knew if one should ever be born, he would marry the woman. Now he wondered why he had been so careless with Elizabeth. He stopped still in his tracks. The Tribunal had set a length of time they had considered appropriate for Liza's supposed mourning of Galen, but when she had become pregnant, they extended that time. Tomorrow, he thought with sudden, dawning hopelessness. Tomorrow would be her wedding day. Tomorrow she would be forced to wed Legion. The Tribunal wanted nothing to alienate the populace. Consequently, as far as the people of Serenia knew, the child that had swollen Elizabeth's belly these past months was Galen's. "You will make no mention of this," Kaileel Tohre had warned him when he was called before the Tribunal. "If one word of the child's true parentage is leaked to the people, you will spend the remainder of your days with the other rebels on Tyber's Isle and the queen will be beheaded. Do I make myself clear, Lord Saur? It doesn't matter what happened after the woman was widowed, although promiscuity is frowned upon as you know. By law, we could have the child taken at birth, but we will not do that. It is in our best interest to let the people think their queen is a virtuous woman." Tohre's hooded lids slitted. "Even though we know her for the whore she is!" "She is no—" "Don't cause a scene here. I assure you, we will not take kindly to it." The new Arch-Prelate leaned forward in his chair and fixed Brelan with a cold, hard stare. "You men of the McGregor family lack restraint. Shall we send you somewhere where you may learn it?" Brelan's blood had run cold. He had to clamp shut his jaws to keep from yelling. He knew these bastards weren't playing games. They were deadly serious. "What do you want me to do?" he finally asked. "It's what wedon't want you to do, Lord Saur," one of the other Tribunalists answered. "You will never claim the queen's child as your own."

Now, standing under the canopy of a huge spreading oak, Brelan took a long, wavering breath. He would go in to see his child, his daughter, but he could not claim her as such. To the world she was Galen's, just as Corbin was Galen's. *** Legion opened the chamber door and smiled. "They are sleeping," he whispered. Brelan started to turn away, but his brother took his arm. "Come and see the baby, Bre." As unsure of himself as he had ever been, Brelan entered the room, his gaze shifting quickly to the big oaken bed. "I'll come back. I…" "Brelan?" The men turned to see Liza watching them, her hand held out. "I'll leave you two alone," Legion said. "No," Brelan replied, shaking his head. "She is your lady. You have the right to be here." Legion dug his hands into his pockets and said nothing, as if he knew how hard this was for his brother. Brelan squared his shoulders and walked to the bed, smiling gently. "You are well, Milady?" "Aye." She eased aside the blanket that covered her newborn. "May I present to you the Lady Ceara, Milord?" Something moved in his soul, and reached out a trembling hand to touch the infant. "Would you like to hold her, Milord?" Brelan laid the tip of one finger on the infant's crop of fuzzy dark hair. "I'd better not." "I wish you would." He wanted so badly to kiss Liza, to hold her. If not the mother, then the child. He reached for the infant. Liza helped him to lift their daughter and sighed when Brelan settled the babe in his arms. "She is the most beautiful baby in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms," he declared, his voice filled with awe. "How could she not be with a mother such as Liza?" Legion commented. Brelan nodded. His eyes were locked on his daughter, and gently kissed her head. She smelled of her mother's perfume and soap, a pleasant combination that he would forever associate with innocence and promise. "Ceara," Brelan whispered, then looked at Liza. "It suits her, Milady." The baby squirmed. Brelan felt wet heat down the front of his shirt. He held the infant away from him a little ways. "Did she do what I think she did?" Liza asked. Brelan was relieved when Liza held out her arms. "Do you want me to change her?" Legion asked. Brelan turned a fierce expression to his brother. "I can do it!" "Have you ever changed a baby, Brelan?" Legion challenged. "I can learn. She's my d…" He stopped, realizing his mistake, seeing the fear on both Liza's and Legion's faces. "My

niece…so I had best learn, don't you think?" Legion started to protest, but Liza stopped him. "The diapers are over there," she said. "Legion, show him what he must do." As she watched the brothers changing her daughter's linens, Liza settled more comfortably in the bed and closed her eyes. She was tired, her body sore, and her heart aching. "Nadia," she whispered, thinking of her firstborn daughter and its father. She opened her eyes and looked at the two men arguing over how the pin should be placed on the diaper. He would be so amused, she thought, remembering the first time Conar had changed Nadia. The diaper had promptly fallen off the child when Conar lifted her. She put a hand on her belly and thought of her happiness on the day she had given birth to Conar's daughter. But now that happiness was gone, though being replaced with a quiet contentment that was slowly growing. Her marriage to Galen had been a travesty. Her marriage to Legion was a blessing in disguise, for she had always been attracted to the stalwart warrior with his wicked sense of humor so like Conar's. Marriage to Legion would not be onerous, not a chore, and it might one day bring the happiness she had lost when Conar left her life. Though she knew both men loved her, she could give her loyalty to only one. Her one abiding love would always be Conar, but life must go on and her children needed a father to look up to and love. Legion A'Lex would be that father. Her gaze shifted to Brelan. She had hurt him, but there was nothing she could do in that regard. Had the Tribunal given her to him, she would have sworn her loyalty just as easily as she had to Legion. But would it have meant the same? she asked herself. Once more her regard returned to Legion. She wondered, if the roles had been reversed and it was Brelan she had been told to marry, if she would still find her heart doing a funny little flip each time she saw Legion. She suspected it would. And the future did not seem quiet so unsettled.

Chapter 7 Her marriage to Legion was already set in motion. It would take place within the hour. She had tried to argue with the Priest, tried to get him to postpone the wedding for awhile. His irrational display had shocked her more than usual. When he had bent over her bed and took hold of her, she thought he was going to strangle her. The man was insane, there was no mistaking that. He had taken one man from her and slain him, butchered his children, caused the death of Galen, stolen her son, murdered her parents, imprisoned her brothers. She could not allow him to spread his venom over any more of those she loved. Her acquiescence was the only way to assure no one else was harmed. Tohre's ugly glower went to Gezelle, who sat with the baby in her arms near the fireplace. A look of hatred crossed the cadaverous features. "A girl-child. Useless. Utterly useless!" Liza shut out his hated voice. Somewhere far off she could hear the spectral strings of a lyre strumming softly to her. It was the tune that held her captivated; the tune that calmed her. It was "The Prince's Lost Lady." A tune that never failed to bring tears to her. Tears for all that had once been. Ghost-like, the melody came to her in the dead of the night, came to her with the voice of the sea that called her name with such forlorn pain. On moonless nights she could almost see the image of the one who called to her as his shadow floated just out of reach over the ocean's sweep.

"Get that mewling garbage out of here!" Tohre shouted at Gezelle. Liza flinched, coming out of her self-enforced numbness. She turned to Gezelle and nodded, then glanced at Tohre's smug face. "Is there anything else?" "No," he snapped and spun on his heel. She watched his retreating back, her face hard and fierce. "Never again, Tohre," she pledged as the black robes disappeared from sight. "Never again will I allow you to hurt one of mine!" "One day," Teal du Mer said softly, "one day he will be destroyed, Liza." Liza looked up with surprise. The gypsy stood in the doorway that connected the King's suite to his Queen's. She knew he had been helping Legion to dress for the ceremony. Her smile was warm. She held out her hand. He gripped her hand, and brought it to his lips. "I wish there was something I could do." "There is, old friend," she told him. "Keep me company for awhile?" He sat in the chair by her bed. His instincts told him she didn't want to talk, so he lovingly held her hand and hummed gently to himself. He would be singing the wedding mass that afternoon instead of Tohre reciting it, as he had at Liza's Joinings with Conar and Galen. The tune he hummed was not from the mass, for he knew she wouldn't want to hear that. His heart went out to her. The gypsy blood inside his half-royal veins throbbed for vengeance against those who had caused her the grief stamped on her lovely features. He, like Conar and Legion and Brelan and Galen, was deeply in love with her. Her pain touched him in ways he hated to admit. He doubled his free fist, dug his nails into his palms, taking his frustration out on his flesh. What he wouldn't give for one man capable of crushing Kaileel Tohre! His thoughts rushed back with a suddenness that made him dizzy, lightheaded. He could see Conar in youth: tall and proud, vigorous and brave, sure of himself, sure of his abilities. The bright flax of his hair would shine in the sunlight, the wind catching it and sending that infernal stray lock over his high forehead. A strong hand would sweep the hair from pale blue eyes and the long lashes would close over the bright sparkle with mirth. The cocky grin from full lips, the lone dimple in his right cheek, always seemed to make him look much younger. There had been a strength in that man few others had. There had been a true sense of self-pride and capability that came through even when he was angry and upset. There had always been power in those hands, purpose in that handsome face, honesty in his stalwart heart.That had been the man who could have defeated Tohre, Teal thought. But that man was gone. Gone all these many years. Teal felt his throat closing. Would there ever again be such a man? A futile smile touched du Mer's full mouth and his twin dimples stretched with despair. No. There would never be a man like Conar McGregor ever again. He missed Conar. He would often stray to the whipping post, stand there, and feel the guilt. He had betrayed his friend. He had betrayed Conar's woman. He had wanted to atone for his doubts, his betrayals, but Liza had never given him a chance. She had welcomed him back with arms wide, arms that held no malice, no spite, only forgiveness. She had unknowingly hurt him deeply when she had forgiven him. He loved Legion A'Lex almost as much as he had loved Conar, but he hated the thought of Legion marrying Conar's woman. She should have died with Conar, he thought, feeling guilty for the notion. One more sin for which he must one day atone.

Chapter 8

The first thing Sentian Heil saw as the black-hulled ship dropped anchor was sand—as far as his eyes could see—shimmering, pale orange sand. Endless, unrelenting sand. No trees. No bushes. No structures. No living things. Only a vast sea of sand and a cluster of tall bluffs in the very center of the sand. Hazy smoke drifted upward from the tallest of the bluffs and spiraled high into the scorching brightness of an unforgiving white sky. What he smelled first was the overall cloying stench of sand. Something less recognizable wafted under his nose and he sniffed, not sure what the godawful odor could be. His nose wrinkled with distaste. He looked at Grice Wynth, shackled to him, and made a face. Grice shrugged. The first thing Sentian Heil felt when he and his manacled partners set foot on the barren beach was the intense heat rising from the sand. A suffocating heat, pressing down on them as though a giant was laying palms on their heads. It made it hard to breathe; the air drawn felt heavy and thick in their lungs. The sun beat down with vicious indifference, blinding them, but somehow increasing the physical aspects of their new environment. Their feet grew warm within their rundown boots and the men looked at the glaring brightness of the sand, could almost hear the sizzling, cracking heat bubbling beneath the surface. "All right! Line up!" The captain and his men shoved the prisoners into a wavering line, then shackled each man's ankles to the man behind him. The weight of the thick chains dragged; several prisoners stumbled. When they did, the captain had a ready kick for them. Grice ground his teeth as Chand fell against him, but despite the fatigue and fever he felt, he managed to keep his young brother erect. Hunger pains turned his vision dark in the relentless heat. He grimaced as Sentian received a hard blow to his shoulder for trying to help another man and went sprawling for his effort. The jerk on his own manacle pulled viciously on Grice's wrist and he fell beside Heil, dragging Chand and Tyne Brell—shackled to Chand—down with him. "If you men can't stand, mayhaps we need to drag you, eh?" One of the burly guards laughed and slammed a dusty boot into Tyne's side. Brell doubled over. A tight grimace of pain flashed across his grimy face as he sucked in air through clenched teeth. Grice made a lunge for the guard, but came face-to-face with a lethal-looking blade. He stopped, crouched on one hand and knee, and glared at the guard. "Go ahead!" The guard smirked, waving his sword in Grice's face. When the young prince dropped his gaze, the guard guffawed. "I didn't think so!" Sentian managed to get to his feet. Physically it would be impossible to escape ,since each man was attached to the other; but none were in any condition to try. The trip from Ghurn to whatever hell-place this Labyrinth was had taken well over three months. Three months with little food, stagnant water, abusive conditions, and rats. For two hours they trekked into the desert, the guards wielding pikes, swords, and whips. The longer they walked, the farther away the bluffs seemed to be. Black smoke still poured out of the central bluff and hung in the air. That same foreign smell hung on the still air and made their eyes water. The smell was also getting worse. The heat was intensifying, as well. They could feel it through the soles of their boots, blistering hot, encroaching. Those hapless enough not to have boots were moaning and crying with pain. The guards had allowed them to wrap burlap sacks around their feet, but the fabric did little to blunt the sand's red-hot heat. Close to sundown, a full three hours after they began their march, the eighteen prisoners and twelve guards approached the first of the bluffs. Squat and ugly, it looked like a poisonous toadstool perched upon the sand. It mushroomed out at the top where it looked to be a good two hundred feet across, dwindling down to a fifty-foot-thick base. A wall of rough rock, at least forty-feet high, fanned out on each side of the bluff and connected it to the others that, from a distance, had seemed to form a ring. A smell of sulfur permeated the outside of the rock and pale yellow powder was lodged in the cracks and crevices of the rockface. "Through there!" the captain bellowed, pointing. Sentian was the second in line, behind a man none of them knew and who had not introduced himself. He, like the

man, looked to the place where the captain had pointed. All Sentian saw was a sheer face of yellow-tinged stone. But upon looking closer, he finally detected a break in the stone, an almost-hidden crevice. A guard slipped through the crevice, disappeared, as if by magic. Obviously the line was an illusion and far thicker than Sentian thought. The first prisoner stepped into the crevice and also disappeared. There was a six-foot length of chain between each man and Sentian was at the crevice before he could react. He put up a hand to keep from falling, braced himself against the rock, and withdrew his hand, letting out a yelp. His hand was already blistered badly in the time it took to hold it up to examine it in the fading light. All around him, guards laughed. "Did I forget to warn you about them rocks?" A guard shoved Sentian through the crevice and turned to the others. "Don't be touchingnothing ! You never know when it might burn, stick, prick or bite!" His mirthless laughter echoed across the barren desert like the caw of a predatory bird. His face red with hatred, Sentian went from little light to no light at all. He couldn't even see the hand before his face. Disoriented, afraid to reach out to feel his way, he stood motionless. He nearly fell when Grice stumbled into his back. A bright flash of light poured out of the darkness. All three prisoners put up their arms, shielding their eyes from the glaring intensity. Chand blundered into them. They were forced further into the bluff, into the stifling, cloying heat, as more men piled in behind. Sharp rock formations rose up from the floor of the bluff, shadowing the light within the hand of the guard who had first entered. An eerie glow came from behind the guard. The sound of running water echoed off to the right. Sentian was reminded vividly of the grotto under Boreas Keep and knew such an underground lake must be near. When all the prisoners and guards had entered, the captain pushed some hidden device and the crevice creaked shut behind them. "Just so you'll know, the entrance is sealed. Anyone who tries to open it will be feeling all along this here wall and he just might find something interesting that will pop up to greet him." The guards shoved the prisoners against one section of rockface, well away from the crevice, and the captain stepped aside. He took a pike from a guard and touched the wall with it. The prisoners stood open-mouthed as row upon row of sharpened sticks shot up from the sand. They would instantly skewer anyone who might inadvertently try to find the hidden lever. "As you can see, we take every precaution to see no one leaves this here place!" "Better tell them about these here critters, too, Cap'n!" One of the guards laughed as he held up a wiggling animal, a species of which none of the prisoners had ever seen. "Aye, guess I'd better." The captain folded his arms over his brawny chest and stared straight at Grice. "There are tunnels beneath these bluffs and there are eight bluffs in all. They circle one another, sort of like a maze, you might say. Once you get inside the Labyrinth, you'll have one hell of a time finding your way out without a map. I've been in here more'n a hundred times and I still don't know my way in and out without my map. Should any of you manage to find your way out of the main bluff, you'll still have to find this one. Men have tried and men have died. You'll pass their bones on your way into the colony. There are more ways to die here than you have ever heard of." He grinned and nodded toward the creature in his guard's hand. "That little bugger is called a scorpion. You'll find him wiggling around in the sand out there in the Labyrinth. He's got a tail, that's how Ned's holding him, that can kill you if he stings you with it. Even if it don't kill you, it'll make you sure wish you was dead. Your skin'll turn black and pop open like a cattail!" His beady black eyes came alive with evil. "There's all kinds of snakes and rats. My advice is to be careful!" The guards moved away from the prisoners. The captain led them toward the back of the bluff, toward the eerie light that—now that their eyes were somewhat accustomed to the semi-darkness—lit up the ceiling. "Step lively, men," the captain warned. "We'll be moving along some treacherous pathways." It took nearly an hour of twisting, turning, steeply declining steps, dog-leg juts, spiraling runways, one leading off from two more identical to it, to reach the bottom of the bluff. From outside, the rock seemed to be no more than eighty to ninety-feet high, but it was obvious to the prisoners that the bluff was far deeper in the ground.

Another hour of maze-like turnings took them deeper into what must have been a second bluff whose floor was nothing more than what appeared to be bubbling lava. Only a thin, narrow bridge of natural stone arched over the hot, hissing sea. If not for the heavy anchor chain spanning the bridge, guard and prisoner alike might well have tumbled into the sea of shifting lava below. An acrid aroma came up on white plumes of stifling smoke and made the men cough and gag. The heat was so intense, it was difficult to breathe. The sulfur smell grew so strong the men had to hold their tattered shirts over their noses to try to blot out the stench. Sweat glistened on their emaciated bodies and mingled with the already noxious smell of unwashed flesh to create a rancid, ripe odor almost as bad as the sulfur. Once over the bridge, they took a sharp left turn and had to duck, bending themselves almost double, to enter another bluff that was filled with a faint white glow. They stepped from a low tableau and felt give beneath their feet. Ahead was a rock formation jutting out over a black expanse of water. Here and there gaseous islands of fog flowed quietly over the water. Three long boats, each of which could hold ten men, stood at anchor off a long iron dock. "Climb in, boys! Be careful. If you should slip…" He picked up a stick of wood from a pile near the dock and threw it in the water. A hissing sound came, then something dark and scaly popped up from beneath the surface and grabbed the stick in a fierce, tooth-filled maw. The water surged, splashed and the creature disappeared in a rolling wave of thunder. "Some kind of freak of nature, they say," one of the guards said. "Don't know what she is, but she likes the taste of flesh, she does. The boats are lined with steel plating and she seems to be affeared of 'em." His eyes were hard as ice, his grin malicious in the light cast from the torches several of the guards held. "We call her Mercy." Another guard chuckled. "That's 'cause she ain't got none!" Chand looked out over the midnight black water where patches of spectral fog flowed and could see shifting, lapping waves where the creature was obviously swimming. A putrid smell assailed his nostrils and he turned a frightened face to his brother. "It'll be all right," Grice mumbled, not sure of that statement, himself. "Here, now! No talking!" a guard yelled, his toothless mouth gaping obscenely as he looked Chand up and down. "Get ye in the boat, pretty boy, else I take it in me mind that ye want me company. Alone!" Chand mover closer to his brother. "Don't let him worry you none, Your Grace. He's just trying to scare you," the tallest of the guards whispered to Chand. He was standing right behind the young Prince, and although he didn't touch him, Chand could feel encouragement from the man. Grice glanced around and saw a fleeting, sympathetic smile of reassurance on the man's hard face. He felt some measure of gratitude and managed to nod so the others wouldn't see. After unlocking the leg and wrist irons from several men, the guards pushed three sets of prisoners toward the boats. The men gingerly settled themselves into the hulls. Sentian, Chand and Paegan Hesar, who was shackled to Tyne Brell, were given oars for their boat. Rylan Hesar, Chase Montyne, and two young men of noble families from the emirate of Dahrenia were given the oars to a second. Men the others didn't know manned the third longboat. The prisoners pushed the boats away from the iron dock and rowed into the pitch black sea. The metal oars were extremely heavy, and with the iron manacles already on their wrists, the men's arms were soon straining in their sockets. Their muscles felt on fire. Groans drifted over the water and echoed off the damp cavern walls. It sounded evil, like the antechamber of hell. The steady sound of slapping water against the hull, the rumble of that unknown creature as it occasionally broke the surface of the water, combined with the water seeping down from overhead made for a miserable trip. At first it was only a glimmer of ghostly light far to the front of their boats, then it became brighter, more distinct, and with it came sound. The sound of metal striking metal. The light grew across the horizon until it blended with the lapping waves and became one long finger of brightness at the end of the long cavern. Smells came, too. Burning, the same stench they had smelled when they landed, only now twice as intense, twice as bad. The ripe smell of rotting flesh and vegetation. As they neared the natural break in the rock that soared high above, Sentian could make out the light source—torches set on high poles. As the boats swept under one last, low-hanging jut, he saw a beach, huts, and other bluffs rising

behind the torchlight. Low structures of clapboard and thatch were scattered around the beach entrance, forming a semi-circle around a large, whitewashed building sitting squarely in the compound's center. The beach was deserted, but the sounds of hammering came from deep within the tallest bluff. A wide, straight ditch ran through the center of the compound, just behind the largest building. From the smell of it, it was used as a privy. The mouth of the ditch was at the farthest end of the compound, behind what looked to be a punishment gallows, and it ended in a narrow finger running into the black pond. "Not your dainty little chamberpots, it is, Your Graces?" The captain smirked. "Shit is shit, though, and that be your shitter!" Sentian ran the boat up close to a makeshift jetty, trying to make sure it held fast so he could loop the bowline around the steel post nearest him. He had a feeling if he missed his mark, someone would have to climb into that flesh-eating water and it wouldn't be one of the guards. He pushed on the oar with what little remaining strength he possessed and finally sat exhausted over the long oar, his eyes closed and his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Not bad, boy," the captain said in a grudging voice. "You must have been a sailor." Sentian's eyes, and his pride, rose to the man. "I was a soldier." "Were you now?" The captain grinned. "And where was that?" "Serenia." There was fierce loyalty in Sentian's weary voice despite his recent ordeal. "At Boreas Keep by chance?" The captain turned his head, a strange look on his face. "I was an Elite." If the captain took it in his mind to beat him for the statement, that was all right. It was the only shred of pride Heil had left. "The Prince's Elite?" "Aye." Sentian wondered about the looks that passed between the captain and one of his guards. "Oh, then, you'll like it here, you will," the captain said. "You'll like it well 'cause we got a passle of Elite!" A belly laugh erupted from the man's broad gut. It didn't take them long to disembark, but not without incident. Rylan Hesar was bone-tired, so tired he could barely stand. When he crawled out of his boat, he stumbled and fell, the toe of his boot vanishing under the black, lapping water. He heard the deep bite even before he felt it. He yanked back, screaming with pain, frantically trying to kick off his boot. He stared in horror at the hideous creature whose teeth were latched onto his foot. "Get it off him!" Paegan yelled, trying to get to his brother. A guard struck out with his pike, connecting hard with the flat, triangular head of glistening green scales. The monster lost its grip on Rylan's foot. It flipped backward and dove below the surface. Only a concentric circle of black water marked its presence. Paegan lurched toward Rylan, but Tyne Brell grabbed the younger man around the waist. "Leave off, Paegan! They might run you through, man!" Paegan swung around to face the small, effeminate man who held him and briefly wondered at the massive strength in those thin arms. Brell's black hair was ragged, his beard thick and scruffy, his face coated with grime, but that remarkably stern face was staring at him with authority, an authority that denied defiance. The manacles on Rylan's feet and wrists were unlocked and two guards carried him away, his moans drifting back to the men who stood by helplessly. "Where are you taking him?" Paegan screamed, trying to get free of Tyne's hold, but the Chalean dragged him to the ground, stilling his movements with brute force. "Sit!" Tyne hissed.

Sentian made a lowering motion with his hands and the men sat, eyeing the swords pointed at them. "A wise decision," the captain told him. "You're a born leader, it seems. Guess the Prince taught you well, eh?" Sentian's chin lifted. "He was the best." The captain grinned. "Was, boy. The telling word here iswas!" Grice let out a tired breath and looked around. There were still no inhabitants in sight, but that metal to metal hammering continued. It was rumored the penal colony was a mining operation. He let his attention wander to the men sitting with him. They were all dirty and tired. Hungry and thirsty, too. He was parched with thirst, himself. The overwhelming need for something wet and cool and refreshing was strong in each man's face. It would have, no doubt, helped their morale if something had been given them, but nothing was. There was not even a stray puff of wind, but the air was grower steadily cooler since the sun had set and the sand was not as blistering as it could have been. Chand raised his head. He turned toward the highest portion of the bluff to their left and nudged his brother. "Do you hear that?" The rough sound of shuffling feet drifted across the beach from the direction of the tall bluff. Muted voices floated out of the dark depths of the entranceway. A shout occasionally rang out, or a heavy thud. With each meaty thud, a listless, muffled groan sounded. A long line of men began to exit the bluff, their ragged clothing dusty and damp with sweat. Their heads were bent with obvious exhaustion and their body odors reached out across the distance to the new arrivals. They appeared shrunken, emaciated. "The gods help us," Chase Montyne mumbled, watching the tired men flow into their huts. "Company," Sentian whispered to Grice. Grice glanced at a man approaching them with weary steps. There was dust on his clothing, on his bearded face, but he didn't look as filthy as the other men. His dark gold beard seemed only a few days' old. The wheat-colored hair was shaggy, but seemed clean enough. He looked tired, concerned, but there was a light in his face that bespoke friendship. "I know him!" Grice whispered. He couldn't hide the hesitant smile that spread over his face and hoped with all his heart the man would smile back. He did. "Well, fancy seeing you here, Griceland!" the man called as he closed the distance between them. "I heard you were vacationing here, so I thought I would join you." The man shook his head. "Bad choice of vacation spots. I can think of a few more enticing places." He turned to Tyne Brell. "I would imagine Chale is nice this time of year." Tyne grinned. "A bit too cool for my tastes. I usually go to Ionary in February." The man threw laughed. "Maybe next year, eh?" "You can all come to Virago," Paegan joked. "At my expense!" "You're on!" The man looked to Sentian and reached down. "I hear you are to be your group's leader." Sentian took the man's hand and was helped up. "I'm Sentian Heil, late of Serenia." "Ah, yes! You were in the Elite." Sentian was amazed at the hardness of the man's callused hand. "You look familiar. Do I know you?"

There was a flash of amusement on the man's bearded face. When he grinned, his teeth were extremely white in his deeply tanned face. "I will be very familiar to you soon, my friend." "He looks a lot like his half-brother, the gypsy," Grice remarked, smiling. Sentian frowned. "Teal? Teal du Mer? Your brother? You're Roget du Mer?" Roget chuckled. "You know Teal?" "Know him? I've gambled with him!" "Youdo know him!" Du Mer's smile grew. He plowed a dirty hand through his hair and wagged his heavy brows. "I can see why you were caught, my friend. Gambling with my little brother doesn't make you very intelligent, now, does it?" Sentian couldn't help but laugh. "I guess not." Roget nodded at the two nobles from Dahrenia, stared a long time at the hulking, nameless man who refused to look up. He glanced at the soldiers from the third boat, and then settled his gaze on Paegan. "Where's Ry?" "That…that damned creature attacked him. I think they took him to the medical hut. At least I hope that's where they took him." A frown etched across Roget du Mer's handsome face. "How badly was he hurt?" "Took a good bite on his left foot, du Mer," one of the guards answered. "He'll be all right. No bones broken; no toes sheared off." "He's been sick the entire journey," Paegan said. "How sick?" "A fever. He never has been hearty. He shouldn't be here…" "None of you should." Du Mer swung his gaze to Prince Chase Montyne of Ionary. There was a strange light in both men's faces as they regarded one another. "How'd you manage to get yourself caught?" Roget asked. "What happened to your sorcerer's magic I heard you learned?" There was a tenseness and rigidity to his back that had not been there before. Chase held up his burned palms. "If I'd had any left, I wouldn't have been caught, would I, du Mer? I want no trouble with you. What happened is over; we can't undo it." Roget's face clouded for a moment, then he shrugged. "What's in the past, stays in the past." Grice looked from one man to the other. He knew there was bad blood between the them, yet no one but the two of them knew the reason. "We're all in this together," he reminded them. "If we don't stay together, we'll be lost." Du Mer swung his face toward Grice. "I forgave him the day I was sent to this hell-hole. They told me the truth of it." "I don't want to talk about it!" Montyne snarled and turned away. Roget sighed. Montyne would come around. He glanced toward the long line of men who were still walking wearily from the bluff. He spied one in particular and frowned. The man was standing, head down, eyes raised, watching the group. He was lurking about like a youth wanting to play, but not sure of his welcome. One toe was digging into the ground, his hands were thrust into the pockets of his filthy breeches. "Why are you standing there gawking at us? Come here!" Roget bellowed. The thin man, tall and gaunt, smiled and started toward them. "Sometimes he has to be led like a child," Roget sighed. "But I don't suppose he really had a childhood considering…" A loud curse rang out from behind the large white clapboard structure. The tall man skidded to a stop, looked in the

direction of the shout, and then turned toward Roget. The new arrivals could see the agitation in the man's gaunt frame even though they couldn't see his face. "Don't just stand there!Go !" Roget shouted, flinging his arm at the man. The man took off at a tired, ungainly lope toward the yelling voices. Men stuck their heads out of the huts into which they had been filing, looked behind the white clapboard building and then turned to Roget. "You! You and you!" Roget snarled, pointing at men. "Do it!" Three men hurried for the back of the building; others, upon seeing what the commotion was, shook their heads and moved back into their huts, shutting the doors to close out the world and what was happening. Another curse rang out. Three more men broke away from the line coming out of the bluff and headed for the back of the building. "What's going on?" Grice asked, watching hard emotion cross Roget's still face. The sound of a meaty crack peeled out, then a stifled groan as the snap of leather hit bare flesh. Grice saw Roget flinch, watched as the man's lips pulled back over his teeth. A command filled with unmistakable fury shot over the still compound. "Want some more?" A man stumbled around the side of the building, pushed from behind by a burly guard with whip in hand. The prisoner went sprawling in the dirt. The whip came down on his bare back with a snap like the crack of lightning. He tried desperately to rise, pushing himself to his knees with trembling arms, but the guard kicked him hard in the ribs. The prisoner was lifted off the ground, flipped over and rolled. He lay on his back, spread-eagled. "Sons-of-bitches!" Roget spat under his breath. "What did he do now?" Sentian viewed the raging anger on du Mer's face. A feral snarl lined the tight, drawn back lips. The man's fists were clenched and his jaw ground with an audible crunch. "Do something!" Roget hissed, his voice quiet but deadly. "Get them away from him!" The guard with the whip put his booted foot on the man's outflung right hand. The prisoner let out a shriek of unimaginable pain, and his body doubled up. He tried to push the guard's boot off his hand as he gasped and groaned. Another horrible yelp burst from the man as the guard ground his foot against the man's hand. "What are you waiting for?" Roget spat, his stare going to the men who were milling around the guard and the helpless prisoner. A weak fist came down on the guard's instep. The big man jumped back, his face contorting with rage. The man on the ground managed to scramble to his knees, cradling his right hand with his left. The guard bellowed, then slammed his foot as hard as he could into the prisoner's side. Du Mer full attention was on the man struggling feebly to get up. Each time he did, another boot went smashing into his body. Roget cursed and took a step forward, but one of the guards who had accompanied the new arrivals caught him. "Don't, Roget! You'll only make it worse. Let the others handle it." The tall man Roget had earlier called to join them threw a rock at the guard kicking the fallen man. Before the guard could turn, another clipped him on the ear from another direction. He spun, his face red, and still another rock was lobbed at his back. It connected with a hard thud and the guard went down on one knee as another missile caught him on that thigh. Still another skipped out his shoulder. "Leave him!" someone snarled. "He can't defend himself! You've seen to that!" Unable to ascertain who was throwing rocks, for many men were standing around, the guard glowered at them all, then came unsteadily to his feet. He flicked his hot gaze over the prisoner who was crouched on the ground, then glanced toward Roget. He hitched up his pants and ambled away, casting a final look of revenge at the man on the

ground. Roget let out a ragged sigh and ran a hand over his sweaty face. Satisfied no guards were looking on, he nodded at the man he had sent to help. The gaunt man said something to his fellow rescuers and the men began to drift away. No one spoke to the prisoner who sat on the ground, his right hand clutched against his chest, his head down, his dirty hair hanging over his face. "Why didn't they help him up?" Sentian asked. Roget ignored the question. "Commandant Appolyon will interrogate each of you separately. He's a bully and likes nothing better than to get a brave man in his hands." He glanced at the man who had regained his feet and was stumbling away. "He'll turn your bravery to fear, my friends. Grice, you and the other royalty will be his main targets. He's a mad dog at times and seems to have a personal grudge against any member of the nobility. I doubt he'll bother Sentian or the others, but I can never be sure. Do yourselves a favor and don't anger him. He'll cripple you if he can." "Sounds like a nice guy," Tyne mumbled. "I'm serious, Brell. Deadly serious. If you act stupid and subservient, if you don't call attention to yourself, chances are he won't mess with you." He turned to the tall man who had joined him. "How badly is he hurt this time?" "Can't say for sure. I think the bastard broke a couple of his fingers." Sentian started to growl like a cornered animal. The tall one glanced at him and flinched. "Do you remember me?" he asked, shyly. Sentian was glaring at the man with a hateful, repelled look. "I remember you well! You're Galen McGregor's bastard brother, Jah-Ma-El!" The man gazed at Sentian with a sad, ironic twist to his large mouth. "Just Galen's bastard brother?" "Jah-Ma-El is a friend, Sentian," Roget told him. "He's been a great help to me. He loved his country and he loved the Crown Prince of that country, else he wouldn't be here." Sentian pointed a finger at Jah-Ma-El. "Aye, he loved his prince, all right! The reason he was sent here was because he helped kidnap the princess! And he helped that hell-spawned brother of his keep her against her will!" "He had his reasons," was Roget's reply. "Reasons or not, he caused Prince Conar…" Sentian's shout was stopped by Jah-Ma-El's soft whimper of agony. "A lot of pain. Believe me, I know what I helped do to him." Roget stared hard at Sentian. He could see why Conar had once chosen this young man to be one of his Elite. There was fire in the young man even though there was currently ice in his eyes. There was courage and strength in his proud body and honor blazed on his handsome face. "There's a lot you don't know yet, Sentian," Roget warned. "I know if I get the chance, this son-of-a-bitch will pay for all he did!" Jah-Ma-El sighed. "I am paying. More than you know. Every day of my life." One of the guards from the compound walked past, glancing at Sentian. He winked. Roget wanted to groan. Obviously others had also evaluated Sentian Heil. The man's thick chestnut hair and flashing white teeth, his full lips set in a softly rounded face were just feminine enough to have caught the guard's eye. He had to stop Sentian from calling attention to himself. "There are men here who will jump you in a heartbeat, and I don't mean to beat you, although that will be part of it. Understand?" Sentian blanched. "Understand?" Roget repeated and saw Sentian nod, his face now suffused with a deep scarlet. "Then keep your mouth shut, your eyes down, and don't open your mouth unless you're spoken to. Cause no trouble, make no demands, and above all, keep as low a profile as possible."

Chapter 9 Liza stood with her hands gripping the wrought iron of the balcony, intent on the courtyard below the King's master suite. A slight breeze ruffled her long black hair, billowing it out behind her in stray wisps. There was a slight paleness to her ivory complexion with its dusting of rosy blush on the high cheekbones. She looked at her bare feet and thought how cool the stone was. Raising her head, she stared at the tall wooden structure that dominated the courtyard below. It had become a symbol to her over the last five years. It was something tangible, real, easily seen. Something she could go to and touch when she felt the need. Although no one liked to see her do that—especially Legion—she could not seem to stop herself from periodically making her pilgrimage. She turned to glance at her husband as he slept. He looked much younger than his thirty-three years. One arm was flung out on her side of the bed; the other lay beside his head, tangled in the pillowcase. There was a slight smile on his face; his eyes moved rapidly back and forth beneath his closed lids with their faint bluish cast. Whatever he dreamed, it was pleasant, for his smile widened and he sighed as though something delicious had been placed before him at his meal. Once more she looked at the structure in the Tribunal Square. How she wished the damnable thing had never come into being! Legion told her he would have it torn down, but she had pleaded with him to leave it as it was. It was a symbol. When he looked at her, she saw his tears gathering. He nodded once and the structure had not been mentioned again. True, the thing was useless, had not been used for more than five years, not sincethat day. And it was ugly. It was a sore point with most of their people. Those who passed it would shudder. Those who dared to look at it for any length of time, and few ever did, were vividly reminded. Liza wanted his people to never forget. Not for one moment did she want them to ignore what had happened there, nor the man to whom it had happened. "Come away, Dearling," Legion softly ordered. Liza jumped at his deep voice. She turned. "Did I wake you?" "The damned cold breeze did coming in through the door." He patted the bed and she closed the door, then padded over to him as he propped himself up. "You spoil me as it is. I should have been up an hour ago." He entwined his fingers with hers, brought her cool hand to his lips. "And if I didn't spoil you, Milord, who would?" She snuggled against him, laid her head on his broad shoulder. "Gezelle, more than likely. Or any other lady traipsing about." He wagged his brows. "Pooh!" she admonished in mock anger. "No other woman would have you, Milord." She dug her elbow into his ribs. "You're too lazy. Look at you…lying in bed at this time of morning!" Legion shrugged. "I'm supposed to be catered to, woman. I am your King!" She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "It's because we all pity you that we take your kingship so seriously." "Pity, is it?" He flipped his body to the opposite side of the bed, rolling her beneath him. He put his hands on her ribcage, then lowered his head. "Legion!" she yelped, giggling as he ran his bearded chin down the column of her neck as his fingers playfully dug into her ribs. "Don't!"

"Do you pity me, still, lady?" He chuckled down at her puckered, laughing face. "Aye!" she screeched, trying to pry his fingers from her. "Good!" he taunted as he wiggled his chin up and down her neck and shoulder. "Stop it!" Her belly twisted in helpless laughter, her chin tingled. She was nearly choking on her ticklishness. He always seemed to know just the right spots to attack. "Give?" he asked, his tongue flicking out to send her into fresh spasms of uncontrollable laughter. "No!" "Are you sure?" He thrust his tongue in her ear. "Aye!" she shouted, her left side tingling all the way to her toes. "I give! I give!" He turned over, dragging her with him, holding her tightly as he stared into her lovely face. His generous mouth stretched into a slow, conquering, self-satisfied smile. The brows wagged again for good measure. "Faith, man," she pouted, "you near rubbed the skin off my neck with that scouring pad of yours!" She scraped her hand over her sensitive flesh. "I should have Brelan hold you down while I shave you!" "Oh, but you loved it, though." He tangled his hand in the ebony spill of her hair. He stared at her until her eyes met his. For a long moment they looked at one another, then he began to pull her head toward him. He gave her a soft, easy kiss, tasting the sweetness of her lips, could feel her answering kiss before he withdrew his lips. He let her pull away, but he kept his fingers in her hair. "Are you happy?" he asked. "I am, Milord." A shadow passed over her face, but she smiled to let him know her pain had nothing to do with him. "You make me happy." "I love you." "And I love you, Milord." "You do." There was amazement in his voice as though he could still not believe it was true. A kind of wondrous, childlike disbelief lit his face. "You really do, don't you? You're not just saying what you think I want to hear. You really do love me." "I really do. You have been dear to me since the day you first threatened me." Legion's eyebrows shot up. "When did I ever threaten you, lady?" Liza shrugged. "As I recall, it was by the pond near Lake Myria. If memory serves, you said: 'I will not allow you to hurt him, lady.'" Legion smiled. "That was the day Rayle, Teal, and I got drunk. 'Twas not a threat, sweeting." "I took it as such. And what you said on mine and Conar's wedding night certainly was a threat." "Enlighten me," he grunted. "Oh, that went something like: 'If anything happens to my brother, you will have me to deal with.'" She smiled sadly. "And when I asked if that meant you would actually do me harm if I should harm him, you said you would, even knowing you'd hang." "I do remember saying that, but I thought I was talking to The Toad. Had I known it was you, Liza-love, I'd have helped you do harm to him that eve." He chuckled. "If my memory serves, I wanted to beat the shit outta him as it was." "As did your papa." Liza giggled.

They looked at one another. Other, more painful, memories intruded. Each looked away, silent for a long time. "It was hard for me to love again, Legion," she said softly, breaking their silence. "I never thought to again." "I know how much you loved him. I know you always will. It has never been my intention to usurp that love or be in competition with it. I hope you know that." She claimed his lips, pressed her breasts into the thick matting of hair on his chest. "I understand that, Milord. That is a great part of the reason I have grown to love you so deeply and so truly. You love him, too, and neither of us has ever wanted to let that love fade." "He wanted us to be together." "He told me once that, should anything happen to him, he wanted me to go to you. He knew you would protect me." "He knew how much I loved you," Legion whispered. "That was no secret." "I know he is watching over us, happy that we are happy, and wishing us well. I have to believe he is content that the woman he loved is in love with the brother he loved most." "I will love you for as long as there is time, Liza A'Lex," he vowed, his voice gruff. "And even beyond." Her small hands moved to his bearded face. She cupped his cheeks, pulled him closer to her questing mouth. Her kiss deepened. He felt the flare of his manhood as it strained toward her. With a low groan in his throat, he eased her over until he was atop her, tangling his legs in the bed covers and very effectively denying that part of him which needed her most from touching her. He struggled with the covers, trying to be suave and controlled, but the more he fought, the more he became entangled in their clutch. "Damn it!" he spat, kicking at the offending impediment with as much effect as before. He caught one heel in the edge of the coverlet and with a vicious kick, shot it away from one leg. But with dawning exasperation, he realized he couldn't do the same with the other leg, for both Liza and her gown were blocking him, tightly wedged over his thigh. He tried yanking the gown away from him, but it held tight. He tried to roll from it and managed to ensnare his other leg again in the rumpled sheet. With a howl of frustration, he flopped down on the bed, arms flung out, and let out a tremendous sigh of surrender. "Why me?" Liza raised one brow. "Having troubles, My Liege?" A wicked grin touched his mouth. Her eyes widened and she had time enough for a soft, "Oh!" before he grabbed a handful of the coverlet and ripped it away, rolling her onto her belly so he could free his other leg. Liza landed face down in one overstuffed pillow, her arms under her. She tried to heave herself up only to have him throw one leg over her and sit gently on her upturned rump. She dropped to the mattress with a soft grunt. His big hands went to her shoulders and he began to ease her gown down the creamy expanse of her arms. "Ah, Liza," he mumbled deep in his throat as he started to plant soft, fleeting kisses down her bare neck and back, over her shoulder blades. Her gown was caught on the peaks of her breasts and would go no further, but he didn't seem to mind. He grinned at her small groan of protest as he continued to kiss the outreaches of her shoulders and upper arms. "Get…off…me…you…oaf!" He bit her tenderly on the side of the neck, sending chills and tingles through her belly. "What'd you say?" he asked. She giggled as his tongue spiraled down the side of her face. "Get off! Get off of me!" "Okay," he said nonchalantly. He rolled off her, lay on his side, his head propped on one fist. Liza saw the challenge on his face and flipped over, flinging her arms out beside her and spreading her legs wide. "I am helpless, oh mighty brute. Do with me as you will!" she said dramatically.

Legion covered his mouth with his hand, patting his yawning lips in a broad gesture of unconcern and boredom. "I find I am no longer in the mood." He sprang out of bed and stooped to retrieve the coverlet. Wrapping it around him like a toga, he went to stand at the open door to the balcony. "Do you not think it a lovely day?" he asked in a cultured, kingly tone. "Oh, Legion," she sang to him. "We could do with a spot of rain." "Legion!" came the staccato burst, whispered with force. He turned and his breath caught in his throat. She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, leaning back on one hand. There was a teasing smile on her full lips and she was stark naked. She crooked her finger at him. "Come here," she whispered, her voice a husky challenge. She watched the gleam in his eyes grow red hot; her smile deepened. She had him now. But to make damn sure she did, she looked down at her body, then back at him, lingering on that section of his naked anatomy just below center. She could have sworn she saw the coverlet pulse forward as she ran her tongue over her parted lips. Legion stood transfixed. He took in the wildly tousled hair, the swollen lips, the straining points of her coral breasts, the softly flaring hips, the long tapered legs. He watched her fling her long hair over one creamy shoulder and his eyes flew to the jiggle of her bare breasts. Silently, he opened the coverlet wide, holding out his arms to her, and waited. "Ho, hum," she sighed and she got off the bed. "If I must, I must." With head lowered, feet dragging, she ambled forward. "Woman," Legion warned, one thick brow lifted. "If you make me come get you…" He had no time to finish his threat. She ran at him, flung her arms around his neck and hungrily claimed his mouth. *** Brelan sat on the edge of the platform in the Tribunal Square. He, too, had a need to regularly visit it, though he wished Legion had torn down the damned thing, burned it, scattered the ashes to the Four Winds and beyond. For some dark, unrelenting reason, he found his way here today and wondered why he felt so close to Conar at this spot, and why he should even want to. He looked away from the gallows to the right and up at the whipping post. Neither rain nor snow nor buffeting winds nor peeling heat had stripped the beam of those terrible stains. He felt a chill go through him. A movement in the King's master suite caught his attention. There in the window of the balcony stood Legion. For a brief moment, their eyes met, held, and then Legion turned. He sat watching his brother, puzzled by the man's odd behavior. When Legion opened his arms, flinging the quilt wide, and just stood there, Brelan's nose wrinkled. "The man's gone stark, raving mad," he whispered. Standing, Brelan stared up at the queer antics of a man he had always thought rather intelligent and normal. When the quilt closed forward, he caught a sheen of blue-black hair peeking out, just under his brother's chin, and understood. His heart lurched painfully in his chest. He was happy for her, of course. At least, that was what he tried to tell himself. She had found great happiness with Legion, with his brother. With Conar's brother. She could laugh again. She had found her life again. As though to underline that thought, a female's childish giggle drifted down to him. He turned, his gaze going automatically to the whipping post. That was no better, so he started back to the keep. He wondered what bothered him the most. Liza's newfound love; the sight of Legion with the woman Brelan loved more than life itself; not being allowed to claim his daughter; or the whipping post that had taken away the brother he had loved so dearly… Brelan stopped dead in the middle of the courtyard. The hair along his neck prickled. Sweat in his suddenly damp hands scalded him. His hands trembled; his heart thudded. He knew if he looked into a mirror, he would see a ghastly white face devoid of its natural ruddy color.

"The brother I loved so dearly?" he questioned. "Where did that thought come from?" He ran a shaking hand through his dark hair. He could feel his heart beating so fast he was beginning to have trouble breathing. Was it true? he wondered. Did I love him? "I did. The gods help me, but I did!" His footsteps took him to the Temple, the last place he ever wanted to be. It was here where Liza had married Conar. It was here where Liza had wed Galen. It was here where Liza's wedding to Legion had been sanctified when she had been able to leave her birthing bed. And it was here, in this terrible place of death and destruction and pain, where Brelan's hopes and dreams and desires had been repeatedly shattered, destroyed, where his daughter, Ceara, had been christened another man's child. Some part of him had hoped Liza would one day turn to him as she had that night in the storm, but she hadn't. She had rekindled that special bond with Legion and that old connection had turned from comradeship to devotion; love now burned where friendship had once smoldered. Watching their love grow hurt him. In his heart Brelan knew he was never destined to have her. And that hurt more than any physical pain the Tribunal could mete out. He sank to his knees before the great statue of Alel, and looked into the dark blue sapphire eyes. He felt betrayed. He felt so alone. And lonely. *** Legion lay beside his wife, watching her sleep. He drank in her delicate beauty, the heavy sweep of her dark curls fanned out on the pillow. His heart was full, aching with the sight of her, and his body was heavy with a passion he knew would never be sated. Though he had lain with her, claimed her, many times, he was still amazed she belonged to him and that he had the right to love her. And he could not stop thinking how close he had came to throwing it all away on the day his father died. He'd had every intention of leaving Boreas forever. When he had met Galen on the stairs that day, he made up his mind to denounce his citizenship and move to Chrystallus to be with his Aunt Dyreil, the empress of that luxurious country. He believed he could not, in good conscience, stand by while Liza wed Galen to become queen of Serenia. He had been so angry, hurt by what he thought was her betrayal of Conar, and nothing save imprisonment could keep him near her despite his oath of loyalty to his country. But that was before Liza had come to him, weak and tired from having given birth, and gone to her knees before him… "I did not betray your brother. How could you think it of me?" "You married that son-of-a-bitch!" he accused. "You don't think that's betrayal?" "Please trust my reasons were honorable and…" "Did Galen or Tohre threaten you?" She lowered her eyes. "Aye, but in a way I cannot speak of it. One day you will see why, Legion, and know. For now, will you trust that I did what was best for Conar?" "Conar is dead!" Legion cried, his eyes filling with moisture. "Dead and gone!" "Not here!" she threw back, her hand on her heart. "Never gone from here, Milord Legion. Never gone from here!" He had seen the pain in her lovely eyes, heard it in her voice, and despite the anger that still held him gripped in its ragged talons, he had done as she asked and walked with her to the library. Two hours later, he agreed to stay and

keep his opinion to himself until such time as she could fully explain to him why she had so hastily married Galen. "Corbin," he sighed, picturing his nephew. Aye, he thought. What other reason could there have been and he too blind to reason it out for himself? While their friendship had not reverted to the easy, bantering playfulness it had been before Conar's death, at least it had been pleasant and without rancor. As for Liza, her attitude toward him had never changed. By the time he understood why she had married Galen, his and Liza's relationship had again changed and he was betrothed to her. It was a change he would never have dreamed possible and one he thanked the gods for everyday. "You're staring." Legion blinked, aware his lady was awake. He blushed and shrugged. "A copper for your thoughts, Milord," she said, smoothing the hair from his temple. "I almost threw it all away, Liza." She understood and nodded. "But you didn't." "You think maybe he had a hand in me staying?" "I'd like to think so." Legion propped his head on his fist. "Do you think he watches us?" "As you and Teal and Thom watched us out on the beach that day?" she asked archly. "Oh," he said, the word dropping like a rock. "I'd forgotten about that." "He never did, though he never actually took revenge for your snooping, he often told me he was still planning how best to get back at you three." "As I remember it, he filled Thom's boots with molasses and spiked my milk with enough tenerse to make me uncomfortable when we were on maneuvers near Ledo and not a woman within fifty miles." Liza's eyes grew wide. "Tenerse? The drug that…" She guffawed. "By the gods, that is rich!" "You'd not think so if you were as horny as a ram and there was nothing to ram!" Liza wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. "That is so like him, but I didn't know he'd taken his revenge. What did he do to Teal?" "You remember when Teal was absent from court for about a month?" "It was fall. He missed the Harvest Festival at Corinth. Someone mentioned it was the first time he hadn't been there to make a bet on the wrestling matches." "Aye, well the reason he wasn't there is because he was sitting in a jail in Colsaurus, accused of gambling with marked cards. Conar marked three decks, and stuck them in Teal's saddlebags. Our Conar had a wicked streak up his back a mile wide." "Teal could have been hanged for something he didn't even know he was doing!" "I doubt Coni would have allowed that, but I believe the jail time was partly due to Teal's spying on the two of you that day and that little sojourn Coni spent in the Wixenstead Village jail before you two married." "When Teal gave him the counterfeit money for passage home. You men," she said, shaking her head. "It's a wonder any of you reached maturity." "Who says we have?" She snuggled close to him. "That was a mature thing you did to me this morn, my Liege."

"I did something to you this morn, my Queen?" he asked innocently. "Care you to see if you can do it again?" "Faith, but I don't remember doing anything save sleeping, Your Grace. I…" He stopped as she grasped that part of him he had exercised so maturely earlier. "I've heard tales of this one-eyed demon from many a lass in this keep," she said, gently massaging her husband. "Really?" He swallowed in an effort to pretend he was unaffected by her ministrations. "I recall hearing that Lord Legion A'Lex was well-endowed and quite the swordsman." "Swordsman," Legion squeaked as sweat began popping out on his upper lip. "One maiden said she had been nearly split asunder by the great man's weighty shaft." "If I shafted her, she was no maiden." "But when I first laid eyes on the weapon, I remember thinking something entirely different." Legion looked down at her. "That sounds like an insult, lady." She tugged tightly on his penis, the thickness of it not even allowing her fingers to meet around the circumference, and shrugged. "Not necessarily." He was up and over her, her hand caught between them before she could react. With his body pressed heavily to hers, his hands braced to either side of her head, he lowered his face to hers. "What think you of that weapon you are toying with, Milady?" he asked in a husky voice. "Think you it is a lethal appliance?" She could feel his shaft throbbing in her grip. Her lower body grew heavy and hot with need. "I think it isn't nearly as destructive as some maids…" "Whores. Let's call a spade, a spade, lady." "All right. I think it isn't as destructive as those whores led me to believe." "If not destructive, then what, Milady?" She giggled. "Highly explosive, if experience serves." He wriggled against her. "And its pleasuring value, lady? What think you of that?" Liza licked her upper lip, grinning evilly at his instant look of arousal. "I forget." Legion narrowed his eyes. "You forget its pleasuring value?" "That is what I am saying." A hot gleam shot through Legion A'Lex's intense gaze and he pressed hard against her. "Let's see if I can jog your memory, wench!" He got off the bed. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice filled with disappointment. "I am a warrior!" Liza watched her husband as he plucked her bedrobe from the chair and drew its sash from the loops. "Legion, what are you about?" she queried in a warning voice. "I have the blood of generations of McGregor berserkers running through my veins," he said as though he hadn't heard. He grabbed his breeches from the floor and tore away the belt.

Liza's heart pounded wildly as she watched him throw open the door to the armoire and drag out a couple of her silk scarves. When he turned and looked at her, her eyes grew wide. "Uh, oh!" She tried to scramble from the bed. She never made it across the wide expanse before he snagged her ankle and drew her back across the sheet. "We men of the McGregor Clan are conquerors," he said, flipping her easily onto her back and gripping both her wrists in one of his huge hands. He straddled her hips, effectively pinning her to the bed. "Legion A'Lex, don't you dare!" "For centuries, the McGregor men have taken what they wanted, when they wanted it," he said through clenched teeth. He looped his belt around her wrists and made quick work of tying it to the brass poster of the headboard. "Legion!" she protested. She wiggled furiously beneath him, her heels digging into the mattress. "We are seasoned soldiers trained to make our enemies cry 'quarter.'" He stopped, looking down into her face. "Do you beg quarter, lady?" Liza lifted her chin. "I am a warrioress from generations of Daughters of the Multitude. I do not beg quarter of my captors!' "We'll see," he snapped. Before she could buck free, he sat on one of her legs. He tied her ankle to the footboard with one of her scarves. Within a moment, he had her other leg secured with the other scarf. "Brute," she hissed, blowing a strand of hair from her mouth. "Captive," he whispered, holding the sash of her robe stretched taut between his hands, he snapped the sash, the popping sound loud in the still room. "What are you going to do?" she asked, uncertainty lighting her green eyes. "You'll see," he said, wagging his dark brows. Liza struggled against her bonds, unaware that the sight of her naked body thrashing on the silken sheets was doing wicked things to her husband's libido. "You are mine, wench," Legion declared. "As your lord and master…" Liza snorted in a very unladylike way. "Think you I am not your lord and master?" "I thinkyou think you are." "Flung down the gauntlet, have you, wench?" Liza turned her eyes to the ceiling, lifted her chin and went perfectly still. "I may be your captive, you savage barbarian, but I will never yield to you no matter how much torture you inflict." "Ah, a maiden to the sacrifice, are you?" "Aye, beast. Attempt your worst!" Legion grinned. "Ah, lady, I was hoping you'd say that!" Liza shifted her eyes to his, then away. He bent over with the sash and blindfolded her. "That's good," she said. "Now I don't have to look at your ugly old bearded face." Legion didn't answer. What he did was begin an all-out assault on her body.

He straddled her hips and slid his body down until they were molded together, his shaft resting between her spread thighs, his hairy chest pressed to her breasts. He anchored her head in his hands and slanted his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue between her lips. Liza felt the quickening in her lower belly and it was all she could do not to squirm beneath his attack. His tongue was sweet, expertly plying her senses as he ran the tip along her teeth and lips. He sucked at the bottom lip, nipping it gently between his teeth, then soothing the light pain with quick little jabs of his tongue. He licked the corners of her mouth, ignoring her quick intakes of breath and shifted his attention to her ear. The sensation of her husband's tongue flicking deeply into the opening and then spiraling around her ear sent shivers racing down Liza's neck. She had to bite her tongue to keep from moaning as he moved from her right ear to her left and continued his assault. "The men of my clan were known for ravaging the women of conquered villages," he whispered hotly. "We came; we saw; we captured; we took the women as our love slaves." "To cook and clean and bear your onerous children," she accused, licking her lower lip. "We used them for our pleasure, wench." He moved so that he could trail kisses down her throat and onto her chest. "You…" "Hush or I'll stop what I'm doing and leave you unsated." "Humpf," Liza grunted, but she closed her mouth only to open it with a gasp as his mouth settled on one of her nipples. With the expert tongue and knowledgeable hands of which Liza had heard many a tale from the keep's women, Legion plied her breasts with a thoroughness that had her panting and wiggling. "The men of my clan," he said as he trailed his hand from her breast to her belly, "are known for being fierce ravishers of their captive women. So fierce, in fact, no woman can long withstand the breech of her defenses." "Oh!" Liza said as she felt his hot finger against the bud of her womanhood. "Men of the McGregor clan know where to touch a captive to insure complete cooperation." His finger slipped inside her, arched upward until he found the spot he sought. "Legion!" she gasped, closing around him. "Aye?" "Quarter!" "What was that?" he asked, removing his finger. "Quarter, Milord. Quarter!" she screeched. "I thought you'd never ask!" He positioned his manhood at the doorway of her sweetness, then stilled. "And what was it you decided about my weapon, Milady?' he asked, straining to keep from ramming into her as hard as he could to satisfy the building passion in his loins. "Huh?" she asked, arching up her hips as much as his heavy body would allow. "Legion, come on!" "What was it you decided about my weapon?" "That it was the most awesome broadsword this woman had ever seen!" "And?" he probed, placing the tip of him against her.

"And that is was all mine." Legion smiled and reached up to remove her blindfold. "Let's see how well I can ply this weapon then, shall we?" The legend of Legion A'Lex's prowess as a swordsman of note was proven well to the satisfaction of his lady-wife that morn.

Chapter 10 "Your heart is in the right place, Liza, but I'm not sure there's anything any of us can do," Cayn took his queen's hand in a light grip. "What you're asking may well be impossible." "But Cayn, if we won't at least try, nothing will ever get done!" Legion put his hand on his wife's pale cheek. "We can try, but I can't promise anything will come of it." "I want my brothers back, damn it!" she snarled, jerking away from them. She turned her furious gaze to a third man. "We've bided our time since they were caught! We've sat and twiddled our thumbs while they were sent to prison! Three months, Teal! They've been gone three months and notone single word from Hern!" Sir Hern Arbra, the Master-at-Arms of Boreas Keep, had gone to the Labyrinth Prison not long after Sentian Heil had been sent there. He had promised to send word, but other than two short, cryptic messages written en route to the colony where he had volunteered as a guard, no other word had reached the palace. "He never reached the Labyrinth." Teal flinched as her stormy green eyes impaled him. He ducked his head. "What?" Her voice was soft, deadly. Teal looked at Legion. "Marsh found out only this morning. It seems one of the captains on the dock told him he had seen Arbra at Ghurn." "What the hell is he doing there?" Cayn snapped. Teal had not been considered a threat to the Tribunal, so had been spared imprisonment. With a stern warning from Tohre that, should he suddenly develop a backbone, he would be summarily hanged, the gypsy had kept a low profile, even going so far as to forgo gambling. "Answer him," Liza demanded. "Why is Hern at Ghurn?" Teal shrugged. "He got into a fight on the docks. Apparently the man he fought was important at Ghurn Colony and Hern wound up being sent there." "Not as a guard?" Brelan asked. Teal shook his head. "As a prisoner." "And he's been there all this time?" Teal nodded. "The captain Marsh spoke with said he could get Hern out of there without any problem if that's what we want." "What did you tell him?" Liza inquired in a voice tight with anger. "I told him we did. Did you think I'd do otherwise?" "I'm not sure what any of you will do next!" she replied and turned her back on them.

Legion looked at Brelan and then Teal. He shook his head, but remained quiet. Du Mer took a deep breath, folded his hands in his lap. "I have a solution if you'd care to—" "Faith!" Liza stormed. "Whenyou solve problems, du Mer, you usually create worse ones! But anything's worth discussing. What is your solution?" Teal shifted in his chair. He didn't like it when she snarled at him, and he didn't like it when she reminded him forcefully of her first husband. Of late, a lot of what she said parodied Conar's exact words. It was unnerving. "Well?" she yelled. Teal pursed his lips. "One of us is going to have to go to the Labyrinth. We can't trust anyone else. Legion can't go; Cayn can't go. That leaves either Marsh, Brelan, or me. Since Marsh's wife is expecting, that leaves me and Bre." "Just how the hell are you supposed to get there?" Cayn snarled. "And just why the hell can't I go?" Teal swung his annoyed gaze to the court physician. "Despite the fact that you think like a man fifty years your junior and act like a man sixty-seven years younger, you are a bit old to go gallivanting half-way around the globe on such a dangerous mission!" Cayn's eyes narrowed; his lower lip thrust outward. "You saying I act like a five-year-old?" "If the tantrum fits!" Teal wondered why Cayn was so uncharacteristically rude. "Besides," Legion said quietly. "You have to be here to deliver our babe." Everyone turned to their King. Only Brelan did not offer congratulations. Instead, he walked to the window and eased aside the curtain to stare at the whipping post. "How would you explain why you're there once you get to the Labyrinth?" Liza asked. "We don't tell them anything," Teal said. "You waltz in andhappen to bring thirteen back for show and tell?" Cayn quipped. "Fourteen," Liza said quietly. Brelan and Teal looked at one another, mentally calculating the men who would have to be rescued: Grice, Chand, Sentian, Thom, Storm, Chase, Rylan, Paegan, Ward Summerall, Teal's brother, Roget, Tyne, and the two sons of the Emirate of Dahrenia, whatever the hell their names were. That made thirteen. Teal nodded. "I had forgotten about Hern." "Aye, but you'll have him before you go to the Labyrinth," Legion said. "Who else, Liza?" "Jah-Ma-El," Liza said firmly. "Who?" every man shouted. "You will not leave him there!" Liza's firm voice brooked no argument. She dared the men to contradict her. Her temper was playing havoc with her normal good sense, but on this she was adamant. "You will bring Conar's brother home!" Legion changed the subject. "How will you get there and who's going to go?" Liza cast him an annoyed look. "Ask Teal. Something tells me he knows a way." "I do have a plan that will work." "You'd better hope it does," Cayn warned. "The captain Imentioned is named Holm van de Lar. Do you remember him, Legion?"

"He used to take us sailing when we were boys." He looked at Brelan. "Remember him?" Brelan's eyes narrowed in thought. "Go on," he told Teal. "Holm told Marsh he could take a man to pick up Hern. If we ask him, he'll see to it we get on the right ship for the Labyrinth." "TheVortex ," Brelan said quietly, a long-ago conversation coming back to him. Pieces were falling into place. "I don't know what the ship's name is, but he can see we get on the right one. At any rate, whoever goes will need a direct order from Legion. They are begging for guards at all the prisons, especially so at the Labyrinth because they now have five times more men incarcerated than they can handle. Since the tour of duty there is for at least three years, most men don't care to spend that much time in a place with a bad reputation." "It's not as bad as people make it out to be," Brelan said cryptically. He waved his hand for Teal to go when those gathered looked to him in surprise. "Anyway," Teal continued, eyeing Brelan suspiciously, "most who volunteer for duty go because they can't find work elsewhere, they've had a run-in with the law, or somebody's after them. But Legion can send one of us there by royal decree." "Why would I?" "What if either Brelan or myself got on your bad side? What if we did something annoying?" "You do that all the time, but I'd never send you there! Though I've been tempted, of late." "But what if this time it was so bad you couldn't overlook it?" Teal asked, refusing to rise to the bait. "What if you had no recourse but to send us there?" "Like what?" Cayn interrupted. "Most crimes that carry a sentence to the Labyrinth are serious enough to warrant such punishment. You can't kill somebody, for heaven's sake! You can't rape somebody! They'll hang you! If you steal something, they'll whip you! I don't think either of you want that to happen!" "But we can get into an argument with Legion. He can threaten us with a tour of duty at the Labyrinth if we don't toe the line. We won't be repentant, either, when he gives us one last chance to apologize." "We'll be downright surly." Brelan chuckled. "Rude! Obnoxious!" "I get the picture!" Legion told them. "It'll work," Brelan promised, "but only if I'm the one to go." "I should be the one!" Teal corrected. "I'm always getting into trouble and Legion's always yelling at me!" His voice turned bitter. "And my brother's still there." Brelan looked at Liza's expectant face, then shook his head. "I'm the one with all the contacts." He turned to Legion. "Didn't you tell me the warden of guards died not long ago?" "I'm sure the Commandant has already chosen a man to replace him. I don't have to send someone there for that." "But you could. A just punishment for annoying you, wouldn't you say?" Legion followed his line of reason. "So you would have some authority instead of just being a guard?" "It should work," Teal said grudgingly. "No one would believe it if you made me a warden." "No one but Holm van de Lar should know of this. He can be trusted." Brelan saw Liza looking at him. "You are sure?" she asked. Brelan weighed what he was about to say, gauging the effect it would have, loath to see the grief it might cause. "He loved Conar." It was all he needed to say. He saw her nod.

"And what happens when you get there? How do you get the men out of there and how the hell do you get back?" Teal asked, not having thought that far in advance. Brelan took a deep breath. "I'll find a way. I have before." Everyone turned stunned faces to him. "It was about twelve years ago," was all he would say, no matter how hard they tried to pin him down. He had taken another man there with him, brought two out, but that was his business. "You can't bring them home, Brelan," Liza told him. "But I can take them to Chrystallus. They'll be safe there with Aunt Dyreil. Or Necroman." "I'll sign a deportation order for, say, a week from now," Legion said. "You can start pissing me off first thing in the morning. I'll also sign that wardenship for you to take." He smiled. "When you're put on the ship, I'll not even bother to come say good-bye." "I hate to wait even a day longer to get Grice and the others freed," Liza said softly. She smiled at Brelan. "Please piss him off well." "I'll bring them home, Elizabeth." "Even Jah-Ma-El!" she ordered. His sad, woebegone expression at the mention of his next eldest brother made her giggle. After the others had left, Legion and Liza sat with their hands entwined, staring into the fire that tried hard to dispel the sharp April winds howling around the eaves. "He'll do everything he can, Liza." "I know." She stared into the leaping flames. "He feels he has to atone." "Atone?" "To Conar." Legion understood. After all these years, she still mourns, he thought. Even after all this time, she daily thought of the man. Everything that was done, every word spoken by the men who had known and loved him, she saw as a tribute to Conar McGregor. He also felt the same heart-rending pain when that beloved name was spoken. It lay like an unburied ghost between them. Sometimes he saw it hovering and it bothered him, made him just a little bit crazy, fiercely jealous. He would watch her and watch her some more until he saw that ghost waver and die once more. Then he could relax. He wondered if the ghost of Conar McGregor would ever be laid to rest. *** Brelan wondered the same thing as he sat in the tavern of the Green Isle that was now owned by two of the most gregarious and welcoming people he had ever known: Harry and Meggie Ruck, a middle-aged couple known by the McGregors. He looked up as Meggie brought him his meal. "Well, Meggie? Have you decided to leave him and run off with me, girl?" he asked, winking at her, laughing as her heavy jowls jiggled and her round, immense face broke into a shy blush. "Now go on with you, Lord Brelan!" she admonished. Her saucy grin regarded him. "You'd fare wear a little girl like me down with your appetites, I'm sure!" He smiled at her. "There's more of you to love than that piece of fluff." He nodded at the voluptuous tavern wench who always tried to get his attention when he came to visit. Meggie turned a frown to the girl. "That Dorrie be a piece of work! Her skirts been up more than they be down since she came to work for us!"

"Why do you keep her on?" Brelan asked, shoveling a mound of crisp fried okra into his mouth. "Harry and her got something going?" "The hell you say!" Meggie snorted, giving him an evil look. "Harry likes his women pleasing plump, not pumped to please!" Brelan nearly choked on his food. He looked into Meggie's militant face. "You are a piece of work, Meggie Ruck!" he mumbled around the food. Meggie shook her finger in his face. "You be good, Brelan Saur." One dark brow rose in a leer. "I'm better when I'm bad, Meggie." Meggie swatted him with her dishtowel and hurried into her kitchen, her apron thrown up to her blushing face. Brelan could hear Harry's raucous laughter as she no doubt told him what Brelan had said. "You have a way with the ladies, don't you, Milord?" Brelan turned as the chair next to him was pulled out. "Only the ones who pay attention to my blarney." "I heard you wanted to see me," Holm van de Lar said, sitting down. Brelan finished his meal and pushed away the plate. As he wiped his mouth on his napkin, he looked at the man beside him. Holm hadn't changed any in four years. Perhaps a little more of his hair was gone from his high forehead. Maybe his gut was a bit more ponderous, his nose a tad redder. His bulk still filled the chair to overflowing. His eyes were still the same intense orbs of honesty that Brelan now remembered from their conversation four years earlier. "How have things been with you?" Brelan asked. Holm shrugged. "Could be better." "Are you still loyal to the family?" Holm didn't need to ask what Brelan meant. "Aye." "How much did you care for my brother, Holm?" Holm sat back. His stare bore into Brelan, gauging the depth of the other man's sobriety. When at last he was satisfied Brelan was no worse for wear, he asked, "Why?" Brelan's eyes fastened on Holm. "Because my life may depend on your answer." A shaggy white brow leapt upward. "Is that so?" "You spoke to a former Elite the other day. Marsh Edan?" "I recall him." "You told him you knew where Hern Arbra is." "I did." "And you said you could get him back to us." "I can." "Will you?" "Aye." Brelan leaned forward. "I may have been drunk when we last talked, Captain, but I was sober enough to see the

loyalty when you spoke of my brother. I'd like you to tell me just how loyal you were to him." "How loyal Iam to him, Lord Saur. Just 'cause he's gone don't make me any the less loyal to his memory." "I can appreciate that." "Can you?" Brelan fused his gaze with Holm's. "It took me a long time to admit it even to myself, Holm, but I loved him. Very much." Holm shifted his scrutiny away from the guilty pain in Brelan's face. He seemed to be making up his mind to do something. A hard, cold look of intense agony filled the sea captain's eyes. "I have a daughter, Lord Brelan. Did I tell you that last time we met?" Brelan shook his head. "She's a pretty little thing, my Jenny. I reckon she has the most beautiful gray eyes you'll ever see. She's tiny, no more than a wisp; about so tall." He held up his hand to his shoulder. "Her complexion is fair, all ivory and roses, like my wife, Maree. And her hair is as pale as moonlight in winter." His face clouded. "She used to sing as sweetly as the canaries on Barris Isle. You could hear her singing as she skipped about the fields behind our cottage. She liked to go gathering flowers on the hillside, daisies, mostly. She'd make these little crownlets for her and her mama." Brelan watched as something turned dark and evil in Holm van de Lar. "She was out gathering some of those daisies the day one of the Temple Guards came riding by. I saw him when he first rode by. It wasn't too long before Jenny went out to get her daisies. That guard must have pulled off the roadway to watch until she was out of sight of me and her mama." Pain filled the captain's face. "I didn't think nothing of it. He hadn't stopped, you see, so I had no reason to think ill of him. He even tipped his hat, as I recall." Bitter resentment flushed the man's cheeks. "He was a big man, he was; name of Lydon. Used to wrestle at the fairs. I put a few coins down on him once. He was a brute; never lost a fight." A hard shudder went through Holm's big frame. His eyes shifted away from Brelan's as though he was striving to see the man in his mind. "He weren't bad-looking. The ladies all seemed to want him. His hair was blond and he had a right pleasant smile." There was such hate and misery in the sea captain's face that Brelan wanted to lay a comforting hand on the wide shoulder, but he sensed that would have been the worst thing to do. "I think you can imagine what that son-of-a-bitch did to my Jenny, Lord Brelan." His deep bass voice cracked with emotion. Tears were shining, spilling over with hard-etched pain. "We weren't for sure if she'd live 'cause she was bleeding so bad." A hitching sob tore through the man and he bit his lip. "How old was she, Holm?" Brelan asked softly, totally unprepared for the answer. "Two days shy of her seventh birthday." Holm hunched forward over the table. " That bastard ripped her so bad the Healer had a time stitching her closed. He told us if she hadn't been found when she was, she'd have bled to death there in the meadow!" "You got to her in time, I take it?" One meaty hand grabbed Saur's arm in a tight, punishing grip. "You asked me how loyal I am to His Grace? It was him what found her. It was His Grace what brought her home. The sight of him carrying my baby girl, blood dripping down his arms and legs, will be in my memory forever!" Brelan had another memory of a man carrying a bleeding child in his arms, but he shook it off. "He laid her in her mama's arms and sent me after the Healer. I wanted to go after that son-of-a-whoring-bitch, but he wouldn't let me. He told me he would take care of it. When he told you something, you believed it, 'cause he'd do it if it was the last thing he did this side of hell!" Although his arm was going numb from the pressure of that hard, sea-callused hand, Brelan didn't flinch as Holm tugged on it. He covered the wide fingers with his own. "He found the guard?"

"Found him and brought him back for Jenny to identify!" "Was she able to?" "The fear of that fellow was in Jenny's eyes. I saw it as soon as His Grace jerked that bastard's head up by his hair. His Grace saw it, too. Despite everything, Jenny recognized him." "Despite what?" A look of satisfaction entered the man's moist face. "His Grace must have had the fury of the gods in him that day, Lord Brelan. If you'd seen his face, you'd know what I mean. He weren't no more than eighteen, I'm thinking. He was slight back then. I bet you he didn't weigh no more'n hundred-fifty. But he marked up that fellow so good you couldn't recognize his face. He come riding back about two weeks later with that man, Lydon, slung over the saddle of that big black beast of his…what was that horse's name?" "Seayearner." "Aye! Seayearner!" Holm smiled a little. "Good name for a steed." He seemed to be focusing on a memory of the horse. "Where is that mighty beastie, Lord Brelan?" "At Downsgate. The du Mer estate. Can't nobody ride him, but…" He looked away. "A sight that was to see," Holm sighed. His fingers relaxed on Brelan's arm. "What happened?" Brelan sighed with relief as Holm withdrew his hand, seeming to become aware that he might be hurting Brelan. Van de Lar mentally shook himself. He focused again and shivered. "If you don't want to talk about it, we don't have to." "It's just that she used to sing all the time and chatter." His lips quivered in a smile. "Used to be we couldn't shut her up! She'd rattle on and on until you thought you'd scream. She'd ask all these questions. Question after question. Why this? How come? When?" His voice trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. "Ain't talked a day since; ain't never sung again." "But she was able to tell you that guard was the man who hurt her, wasn't she?" Holm clasped his huge hands together, lacing the rough fingers. It took him a moment to compose himself. There were tears on his weathered cheeks. "When His Grace rode up with that man, my Maree went out to meet him. I was in the stable saddling my nag 'cause I meant to go looking for the bastard myself since I hadn't heard nothing from His Grace." The blue eyes narrowed as though to make a point. "I weren't worried that he'd keep his word, Lord Brelan. I was worried that that fellow might have hurt him. When I dragged that worthless horseflesh out of the stable, I saw His Grace getting down from that black beastie of his and I saw that bastard slung over his saddle. I felt like whooping to the gods when he jerked that piece of shit off that horse of his and the bastard crumpled on the ground at His Grace's feet!" "Was he dead?" "I was hoping he was!" "And that's when Jenny identified him?" "She must have been looking out the window, 'cause she come out on the porch and stood watching. His Grace called to her. She looked like she'd bolt, but he was persistent. Wouldn't let her mama and me go get her, neither. He just hunkered on the ground, stayed that way a long time, just talking to her. His voice was so kind, so gentle. It took her a long time, but she finally came off the porch and walked out to where he was kneeling. When she saw that man, she almost ran, but His Grace asked if that was the bad man who had hurt her 'cause he wanted to make sure he didn't hurt no other girls. At first she wouldn't look at him, but he started telling her all about his daughters and such and how much he loved them, what their names were, what they looked like. He told her he wanted to see the bad man punished if he was the one who had hurt such a pretty girl. "He told her the man would never hurt her again, but he had to make sure he had the right one to punish, 'cause if he

weren't, it would be wrong." Holm shook his head. "Jenny looked at him; she took a step or two toward him. His Grace reached out a hand and she walked right up to him and nuzzled her cheek in his palm. I wouldn't have thought it possible, considering what had happened, but he opened his arms and she went right into them. She held on to him like she was drowning. When he asked if that was the bad man, she nodded. He kissed her on the head, then eased her into my arms." "He always had a way with children," Brelan said, his own voice thick with an alien emotion he didn't fully understand. Holm wiped at his cheek. "He took that fellow back to Boreas. Had the bastard whipped, too. I was told he even tried to get him hanged, but that Priest wouldn't have none of that." "Tohre?" "The black-hearted son-of-a-demon! His Grace ain't been the only one that sorcerer has hurt. His Grace went to the Tribunal and it was them that sent the bastard to the Labyrinth instead of hanging him. But I've heard things about him since, Lord Saur. He ain't no prisoner. He's a guard!" "A man like that should have been castrated," Brelan replied. "I'm surprised Conar didn't…" He saw Holm nodding. "It might not have been His Grace that did it while that son-of-a-bitch was in the dungeon, but he had it done!" Brelan smiled. Conar would have done just that. "He must have been furious when Tohre did no more than ship the bastard off to prison." "That he was. He told me he'd see to it that the man never returned to Serenia. Now that His Grace is gone, that man might come back thinking it's safe." Holm turned a fierce scowl to Brelan. "But I'm here to tell you, that ain't gonna be the way of it. If he ever steps foot on this soil again, he'll not live long enough to enjoy it." "That would be the way Conar would have wanted it." "And it'll be the way I'll see it done!" Holm took Brelan's arm again, but this time his grip was light. "I owe him, Lord Brelan, more than I can ever repay." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "His little brothers are safe from the bastards what took his life." Brelan searched the hard blue gaze regarding him. "Coron and Dyllon?" Holm nodded his head in one quick, decisive jerk. "You got nothing to worry where them boys are concerned. Them and their wives, they're safe." He knew he had come to the right man. Gathering himself together, Brelan once more covered the hard fingers on his arm. "Will you help me get his friends and brother home?" "You got a way to do that?" "I've got the sea charts." "You're a lot like him, ain't you, Lord Brelan? A lot like His Grace." "The name's Brelan to my friends. Just Brelan." He offered his free hand to the captain. Holm lowered his eyes to the proffered hand for only a fraction of a second. A frown marred the wide expanse of his face and Brelan thought he would refuse to help. When the man's pale eyes lifted to Brelan's, there was resolve on his weathered face. "I'll be glad to call you friend, Brelan." He took Saur's hand and held it. "But I'll go to that hell-hole only on one condition." "Name it!" Holm tightly closed his strong fingers around Brelan's wrists. "That we bring his coffin home from that vile place. I don't sleep well knowing His Grace is buried in that hell-hole." "You still think they took him there?"

"I spoke to a guard what saw that coffin off-loaded at the Labyrinth." "I promise, Holm, if he's there, you can be assured we'll bring my brother home!"

Epilogue It has been a year, he thought. No, his mind amended, it had been two, going on three, now, since he saw the first of them arrive. He remembered feeling something akin to absolute joy in his battered soul, what soul he had left. He didn't get to talk to them, had only looked at them for a brief, stolen moment before he had been lost once more to the brutality of his existence. From the moment the first of them noticed him, he no longer felt quite so alone. He had furtively watched them and had felt a great amount of sadness well up inside him. When he had first arrived, he had been recognized with something bordering on sheer disbelief. He had felt a burning shame rip through him and turned away from them, hidden himself from their sight. Now, he thought, as he looked out the window, here was another portion of his life that had come shambling back into the tangled web of his existence. There could be no joy with which to greet these particular men. Joy had forever been denied him. He had wished with all his heart never to see any of them again. Not as he was now. Not as he had become. Their look of horror would be even greater, for he realized he was so much worse off now than he had been four years before. At least back then, he somewhat resembled a human being; now, he was more animal. Slumped at the window, he watched these new arrivals with the sad, hopeless look that was now a constant part of him. Their faces in the flare of the overhead torches were dear to him, loved, remembered, missed. He had the opportunity, the rare, unsupervised occasion, to observe them without being seen, either by the men he was watching or the guards who wouldn't allow him the chance to do so if they knew he was trying. But for now, he feasted his hungry eyes on these men. He could look as much as he wanted before he was caught, and he intended to make the most of his good fortune. A gruff clearing of the throat gained his attention. He turned, flinching with expectation. He glanced only for a split second at the man behind him, seeing he was alone with the Healer, and let out a relieved sigh. He nodded, knowing what was expected. Wearily, he got to his feet and walked to the door, feeling a pitying gaze on his stooped form. It was a little difficult to turn the knob, but he managed. He looked nervously to the man in the room and he nodded in a quietthank you , immediately lowering his gaze to the floor. His footsteps were slow, shuffling as he left the building and headed for the place where he passed his solitary nights. He passed guards who ignored him, but then encountered one who held out an impatient hand to see the pass signed by the Healer. He extended it to the man, never daring to look into the guard's face, and waited, with head bent and eyes downcast, for the non-committal snort of acceptance of the pass' instructions before he was allowed to go. He reached his bed and crawled into it, lying on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. He lay there for a moment, his mind and soul blank, and then his tired mind began to wonder. He began to remember.

He didn't want to. But he couldn't help it. It was a dangerous thing to do. And it hurt. Sweet, merciful Alel, how it hurt! But it was something he couldn't stop from happening now and then, although his memories were fading, dissolving more rapidly with every passing day. The thought of his memories leaving him, alone and defenseless, was a torture far worse than anything mankind could create. After all, his memories were all they had left him. Everything else was long gone; and when even those precious islands of hope were gone, as well, he knew he would be beyond humanity and would drown in the misery of his existence. Some of the memories had been pushed too deeply inside for him to dredge up. He tried to leave them where they were, but now and again, they resurfaced, bobbing up to remind him of what had once been, what would never be again. Aye, he thought, with hungry pain eating through his soul, memories were the worst kind of torture, second only to unanswered questions. Over the years, he had formed so many questions, needing the answers, longing to know, but not one word had ever been uttered in his hearing that would let him know if his worse fears had been realized. The questions hurt too much and he finally stopped asking himself for answers he knew he could not get. Besides, the questions had killed a part of him, and he was afraid hearing the answers would finish the part that still lived, that drew breath after breath and refused to give up. One wrong answer might destroy him. Aye, he thought, memories faded, questions remained. Not that it mattered anymore. He huddled down into the ragged covers, for the night was black and still. It was late. There was no moon and he was thankful. He tried to focus on a single beam of white light in his mind's eye, a trick he had been taught many years ago. Sleep would be a long time in coming, otherwise. He sighed. His fingers hurt. Four were broken on his right hand. They ached, throbbed, inside the tight constriction of the bandage that hold them together. Not that his injuries mattered. What were broken fingers, anyway? Five years, he thought. More than five years since it all began. He tried not to think about that part of it, but it leapt across his mind, unraveling like an uncoiling serpent, and he watched the story unfold. He tried to stop the images from forming. "Let me die," he pleaded, his hoarse voice unaccustomed to speech, for it was not allowed. He mumbled the same prayer he had whispered for years. "Merciful Alel, let me die in my sleep." With his uninjured fingers gripping the tattered remnants of the bedding to his chest, Conar McGregor buried his face in the stench of the material and wept.

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

nominations and awards for her work, but better still, has built a fan base whose members border on the "fanatical." Currently, Charlee is at work on at least several books in her various series and trilogies.

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