Windlegends Saga - The Windhealer Part 28

She regarded him with a steady look, her will far stronger than his own. Her tongue ran over the arch of her upper lip.

He was lost.

Beyond help.

He surrendered to the sweet torture.

Her face stretched into a compelling, conquering smile. She untied the drawstring and slipped her questing fingers through the patch of hair hidden below the waistband.

His ragged breath seemed to please her as she stroked, kneaded the sudden hard thrust of his manhood. She covered his body with her own, then slid down along his length until she could plant a warm kiss on the deep indention of his navel. Her lips trailed along his belly and sides.

"Let me pleasure you in a way that will not break any commitments you might have, Highness. Let me fill your soul with rapture and take you to the heavens you have been denied for so long."

He knew he was entirely at her mercy.

She seemd to know it, too.

She pulled down his breeches, smiling as he raised his body enough to accommodate her. His flesh leapt at her as the breeches moved off his hips; her smile turned hotter still with pa.s.sion. She looked up at him with a hunger of s.e.xual need that staggered him. Her hand molded itself around him. She raised one fine brow in appreciation, then lowered her head. With infinite care, her lips parted to draw him deep inside her warm mouth. Her tongue spiraled around the swollen tip of his manhood and her hands slid down to cup and hold.

Conar threaded his fingers through her silky hair while his eyes closed to the intense pleasure. It was exquisite torture, drawing from him a response he had long since forgotten. With blinding swiftness, he felt the raging tide of his need building toward the sh.o.r.eline of his release. He groaned. Her lips nibbled, her mouth sucking the very nectar, the essence, from him. The pressure built within him, crested forward, edged ever toward the sh.o.r.e of his consciousness. Her hands shifted his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and he burst forth like the explosion of a star, white-hot with excruciating pleasure. He groaned as his flesh jerked within her soft mouth, his life-giving fluid cascading down her slender, arched throat. He grasped her head with both hands and called out, his body stiffening, and then he seemed to fall away, his hands sliding limply to either side of his depleted body.

Her tongue swept over his shrinking flesh, drawing, taking away the remnants of his pa.s.sion. The soft rustle of silk breeches eased over his hips and waist as she tugged them into place, silently making him lift up so she could re-tie the drawstring. She reb.u.t.toned the tunic, then put a finger on his bottom lip and traced the soft flesh before. She fused her mouth to his in a heady kiss that made his senses reel. He could taste himself on her lips and the warm invasion of her tongue into his mouth sent shivers of intense sweetness through his belly.

She broke the contact of their mouths and rested her head on his broad shoulder.

Conar drew her to him, fitting her body into the curve of his own. He placed a kiss on the shining halo of her hair. It had been a long time since he had experienced the pleasures this tiny woman had just given him. There had been dreams early after his imprisonment, dreams that had left him wet and aching, but they had subsided long ago. He had almost forgotten how wonderful the act of love could be, and in his mind, there was no doubt that was exactly what Se Huan had done for him. Her face had revealed more than desire when she had gazed up at him.

He wanted to love her, to make love to her, but knew he couldn't. Not now. Not in the way she deserved, but he did know ways of bringing about the sweet bliss in her that she had drawn from him.

"When we have slept, Highness," she said, snuggling against him, seeming to read his intent in the way his fingers pa.s.sed over her naked shoulder. "Then we will climb the mountain again."

But when he awakened the second time, spread her gently on the bed and used hands and fingers upon her more than willing flesh, he found the steadfast obstruction of her maidenhead blocking his questing fingers.

"Your aunt would not have sent a wh.o.r.e to your bed, Highness," she remonstrated. "I would not have come, myself, had I been impure." She took his hand and brought the fingers to her lips, kissed them and, molded them to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "When you are ready to love me without guilt, Highness, then you may initiate me as you wish. No one but you will have that right."

Guilt? he thought. He felt no guilt at what he had allowed to happen. He felt no shame. He had not actively partic.i.p.ated in the process, but he hadn't put up that much resistance, either.

Therewas no commitment. He had no wife. He was free. Free to love and cherish this woman. Free to offer her his hand in companionship, if not in marriage. His body was free; his soul was free, but his heart was still securely chained to Liza.

He decided there was no one to blame because this had happened. He had done nothing wrong.

But he did have one regret.

No doubt to the woman lying beside him it hadn't meant overmuch; to him it was a burden, a reminder, nothing more. But it had been like the shattering of a fine, expensive crystal.

At the moment his climax had come, he had called out. One word: Liza.

Chapter 2.

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

Dyreil carefully watched her nephew. Despite the battered condition of his face, the leanness of his body and the haunted despair in his beautiful eyes, she could still see the young man who had held the world in the palm of his hand all those years ago in Serenia. There was strength of will within him and she knew the vital animal instinct of survival he had leaned upon at the penal colony would help him deal with the problem of Liza.

She frowned, looking into her winegla.s.s. Liza was a subject he had yet to broach with her. Brelan told her about a conversation with his brother prior to leaving the Labyrinth, but since then, on the long journey to Chrystallus, Conar had studiously avoided any discussion of things in Serenia and especially of his ex-wife.

"How's the wine, little brother?" Brelan asked, as his aunt nudged his foot under the table and nodded toward Conar.

Conar shrugged. "So-so."

"Aye," Dyllon snorted, "so-so good he's on his fourth gla.s.s! You'd better watch him, Uncle Tran. He doesn't hold his liquor well!"

"And youknow what plum wine does to the McGregor libido," Coron remarked.

Tran chuckled at the pale pink blush that spread over Conar's face. "Your great-great-great grandfather had some problem with plum wine, if I recollect accurately, didn't he, Conar? Was that not what started the War of the Zones?"

Conar nodded, absently, looking into the golden swirl of his wine. "He bought; he tasted; he drank the whole bottle; he pillaged a town." He turned to his uncle. "Typical McGregor male reaction."

"Aye, well," Coron said dryly, "if pillaging the town had been the only thing great gramps had done, we'd still be four separate countries within Serenia. I believe there was a female or two abducted in there somewhere?"

Brelan chuckled. "Maybe one or two."

"Like maybe our great-great-great-grandmama-to-be?" Dyllon reminded them.

"He saw her; he liked her; he took her," Conar answered. He frowned into his winegla.s.s again. "Typical McGregor male indulgence."

"And started a war when her father and brothers and uncles and cousins went after the raiding party," the Empress put in.

"Well, she didn't seem to mind being taken," Coron remarked. "If the tales are true, she seduced her Boreal warrior before they were two leagues out of Eurus."

"He allowed her to fight him; he surrendered; she conquered him," Conar mumbled. He drained his gla.s.s, reached for the bottle in front of him. "Typical McGregor male stupidity."

"But she loved him, Conar," his aunt said. "Didn't she fight for him when her father came to challenge him to a duel? She took up a sword to protect his back from one of her cowardly brothers who was trying to skewer Grandpapa."

"If he had not been intoxicated with good Chrystallusian wine, he might not have pillaged the town, though, Aunt Dyreil," Wyn put in. "If he'd been sober, he might not have picked that particular lady. Wasn't he engaged to another woman from Norus?"

Dyreil sent her great-nephew a warning look, then exchanged looks with her husband. "It doesn't matter if he was engaged. He and his captive fell in love. He was willing to start a war to keep her."

"He took her with him; he laid her; he thought she loved him," Conar snarled. "Typical McGregor male arrogance."

"It was a true love, Conar," Tran said. "Their marriage was one of the best, or so I've heard."

"And you know what our great Grandpappy always said about true love!" Dyllon said, wanting to lighten the heavy air. "He said-"

"That it only comes once in a man's lifetime," Conar interrupted. "If he is willing to risk everything to keep it, to fight to the death for it, he should be allowed to have it for the rest of his life." His voice trailed off, his eyes suddenly dark. "Typical McGregor male presumptuousness."

Dyreil silently pleaded with her husband to change the subject. Again she nudged Brelan beneath the table, making him wince.

"If you gentlemen would like, we could go hunting tomorrow," Tran said. "Our bowyer has crafted a new crossbow that is wicked! I have had reports of a were-tiger in the northern hills. Who would care to try his expertise with the crossbow?"

Conar got hastily to his feet and mumbled a good eve to all. His footsteps echoed hollow and lonely over the polished parquet flooring.

"Did I say something wrong?" Tran asked, his kind face wrinkled with concern.

"Liza once saved his life," Wyn explained. "Not long after they'd met. She brought down a were-tiger with her crossbow."

Brelan stood up, hurrying after his brother. He had seen the glimmer of tears in Conar's eyes. Neither had he missed how Conar had s.n.a.t.c.hed up a bottle of plum wine from the sideboard on his way out. When he reached Conar's door, he found it closed, locked. He rapped lightly.

"It's me. Brelan." "Go away." "I'm not going anywhere until you unlock this door." "Then you'll have a long wait!" "Open the G.o.ds-be-d.a.m.ned door!" Brelan rattled the handle. "Did you hear me, Conar?" "Leave me the h.e.l.l alone!" Something heavy hit the teakwood door. Brelan guessed it was the empty wine bottle. Brelan yanked hard on the handle, kicked the bottom of the portal, and grimaced as he realized too late he was barefoot. He hopped on one leg, holding his injured toes, his temper rising. "d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l, Conar McGregor!" "I've been there!" No amount of pleading, cajoling, or threatening unlocked the door. Brelan went away frustrated, worried, and limping.

Almost sure he had broken his big toe, he cursed the rule that allowed no footwear in the palace. "What did he say?" Tran asked as Brelan met him on the stairs. "To leave him the h.e.l.l alone! He won't unlock the door. You know what happened last night and every night we were at sea." "There are some things he can only do for himself; there are some things we have to do for him. All room keys are in the top drawer of the credenza at the head of the stairs. His key is the one with the sunburst medallion. Let him have his privacy for now. When the need arises, then make use of the key." Tran put his arm around Brelan's shoulder. He had always thought of this young man as his son and he loved him. "Conar needs to work things out in his own mind. When he is ready to talk, he will. He has always been one to keep his thoughts to himself, you know. There is no reason to think he has changed." "I guess you're right." "One of the absolutes of being a G.o.d-like being," Tran said with a perfectly straight face. Brelan groaned at his uncle's dry wit and bid him goodnight. With one final look at Conar's closed door, he limped downstairs, knowing all too well someone would have to unlock that door before the night was through.

* * * He was caught up in the nightmare again. The dream had started the first night he was on board the ship. He had awakened screaming, gasping, violently fighting his brother's and Shalu's hold on him as he struggled in Holm's bunk. "It's all right!" Brelan had said, trying to gain his brother's attention. "You're safe now!" Conar jerked, whimpering, writhing, striving to get free. His face had been as white as parchment, a vein throbbing dangerously in his temple. It had taken a few minutes and a great deal of force to subdue him. At last, trembling from head to toe and breathing erratically, Conar stared up at his brother with pitiful uncertainty. "Safe?" he breathed. His look was one of confusion, disbelief. "We're on our way to Chrystallus." Brelan wiped the sweat from Conar's forehead and swept back the damp hair. Conar looked around, confused even more by the dark paneled cabin. He settled for a moment on Shalu's face. The Necroman smiled, trying to rea.s.sure him, but Shalu smiled so infrequently, and with such concentrated effort, the grimace wasn't rea.s.suring at all: it looked suspiciously like condescension, pity. One big hand caressed Conar's bare shoulder.

"Would we lie to you, brat?" Shalu asked in a soft voice.

Brelan sat on the bunk beside Conar. He laid a wet fleece rag on Conar's hot face, ran it down his cheeks, over his forehead, down his neck, trembling chest and shoulders, and over arms stiff with fear.

"It'll take six to nine months to make it to Chrystallus because we're going the long way around the Cape of Diabolusia, then cutting across under the Emirates." He pressed gently on Conar's shoulder and made him lie down. The wet rag continued its journey across Conar's fevered flesh. "Not a particularly dangerous route, but a long one."

"We're not in the Labyrinth?"

"No, brat," Shalu said. "That h.e.l.lhole isn't even a blur on the horizon, now."

"I'm free?" he asked, searching Shalu's face for the faintest sign of a lie.

"We're all free."

Conar turned his scarred cheek into the privacy of his pillow and wept. "I'm really free."

"Let's leave him to-"

Conar stared at them with terror. "Don't leave me alone! They come when I'm alone!"

Brelan suspected Conar was talking about the nightmares that had driven him to sit bolt upright in bed and howl with terror. "We'll stay with you."

Since then, Conar had never been allowed to sleep alone, for the dream came nightly, without fail. Most of the time, all it took was a gentle nudge when the hysterical whimpering came, a whispered a.s.surance that all was well, a loving arm placed protectively around him.

It was the main reason the Empress sent Se Huan to him. It had been she who had nudged him awake when the nightmare started that first day.

It was also the reason she returned that night; it was her soft voice that had awakened him when the whimpers came and she had stayed to give him the blessing of s.e.xual release.

Shalu was convinced the nightmares stemmed from Conar's first sight of himself in the great Cheval mirror anch.o.r.ed near Holm's desk in the cabin. They had been so careful in keeping him away from mirrors at the Labyrinth, but not so careful once they were on board ship. Neither Sentian nor Belvoir noticed the mirror when they brought Conar to the cabin, intent only on getting him to sleep, getting him out of the wet clothes that clung to him like a second skin.

After they'd gone, Conar had noticed the mirror standing sentinel at the far end of the cabin. Much later, Shalu found Conar standing before the mirror, tears streaming down his ashen cheeks.

Conar had a death-grip on the top of the oval frame and was staring intently at his image in the candlelight. The light cast the lower portion of his face and upper chest into shadows and lit his forehead and cheekbones vividly like the suspended monster image of a severed head, a floating ghoul in a child's dream.

Shalu placed a hand on Conar's tense shoulder. "Come away, brat."

Conar continued to stand there, never wavering from his reflection. He never blinked. His face was compressed into lines of hopeless pain and his chin was quivering, but his pale eyes were still as death.

A long, thin streak across Conar's nose and right cheekbone where Appolyon's riding crop had hit him was a fiery red. Dark circles under the pale eyes only accentuated the sunken and wounded orbs. The face was lean, the cheekbones standing out sharply against the rest of his face. The puckered twin furrows on his left cheek were a dark gray, but looked black and sinister in the candlelight. Along the bridge of his nose, once straight and unmarked, there were lumps and wavering white scars, ridges of torn tissue that had healed and pulled, puckered over the incline of his nose, caused from having been broken so many times over the last six years.

Conar saw a white outline staring back at him for a moment as the afterimage floated in the mirror. He studied at the face looking back at him and did not recognize this man. It was the face of a stranger; the face of a dead man.

In a voice so soft Shalu had to strain to hear it, Conar whispered through his sobbing. "Look at him, Shalu. Look at what Kaileel has done to him." A hitching breath came and went and the voice turned softer still. "Look at what they've all done to him."

Brelan entered the cabin, a look of intense pain on his face. "Conar," he said as he came to his brother's side. "I want you to come away from the mirror." He put one hand on Conar's arm, the other on his back and smoothed the scarred flesh. "Let go of the mirror."

"Who is he?" Conar asked, his tone filled with loathing. "Who is that monster staring back at me?"

Shalu took the young man's forearm in a no-nonsense grip. "Do as your brother says, brat. Let go." His voice brooked no resistance. He tightened his hold and, together, he and Brelan forcibly removed Conar's hands from the frame.

They escorted him back to the bunk, then pushed him to the mattress and blocked his view of the mirror.

"Lie down," Brelan ordered in a voice harsher than he had intended.

It was a tone of voice Conar understood, and had learned to obey. He hung his head in abject misery, his blond hair obscuring his face. His shoulders slumped. "Why?" Slowly his head came up as though it pained him to lift it. "What did I do to deserve being marked like this?"

"You didn't do anything!" Brelan answered.

"Why did they have to hurt me in such a way?" he pleaded, looking from one to the other, needing an answer he could understand.

"You've never been vain," Brelan said in an accusing voice. "Are you going to let a few lumps and bruises hurt you? The marks from the riding crop will vanish in a few days."

"And the scars from Tohre's whip?" he asked, lowering his head. "Will they go away, too?" There was such vulnerability, such hopelessness in the voice, that Shalu had to turn away.

Brelan put his hands on Conar's knees. "You know those scars won't ever go away. But they will fade."

Conar looked at Brelan with a strange gaze. "It's been more than six years."

Saur looked at Shalu for help, but the Necroman's back was to them, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Brelan looked back at Conar. "Those of us who have daily seen those scars no longer notice them."

"But what about those who haven't seen them every day? How will they look at me? How will Legion? Teal? Li-?" His voice cut off. "How could she ever stand to look at me like this? How could any woman bear to look at this face?"

"She has seen it," Brelan answered.

Conar stiffened; his face filled with disbelief. A single tear fell down his cheek. "When?"

Brelan wanted to flee the raw pain in his brother's face. "When they were taking the coffins to the ship," he answered, seeing that procession as clearly as though it had been the morning before. "Legion stopped them, demanding we be allowed to see you. Kaileel wasn't going to let us, but she made them open the coffin."

"What was she doing there?" There was hard accusation in the rasping voice.