WINDHEALER (17 page)

All energy seemed to drain from him. Conar sat. All the light left his eyes, all the life from his tired body. He sat with the backs of his hands on his thighs, his head hanging.

"Lie down," Brelan ordered in a voice both stern and fatherly.

Conar looked over his shoulder. His voice was without inflection. "Let them have me. I'm not worth saving."

Saur wanted to shout, to slam his fist into anything that would give, but he didn't. He put his hands on Conar's shoulders and brought him down to lie beside him, not putting his arms around his brother this time. His voice was measured, assured. "No matter what they did, they never touched what you truly are. No matter what they
ever
do, they can never make you any less a man."

The blond head snapped around. The intensity of the blue gaze was probing, needing. "You still think I am a man…?"

"They didn't geld you, if that's what you think."

"They might as well have." Conar turned his head, shutting out the earnest, warm affection looking back at him. "I'm sure as hell not a man anymore."

"Tell me what to do, Conar. Tell me how to make it better."

Conar wished he knew, but didn't. He hurt everywhere. He was spiraling into an abyss that loomed ever closer and only knew he didn't want to be sucked into chaos forever.

"Lay down," Brelan encouraged.

Conar tensed, then pressed himself as close to Brelan's as he could get. "Hold me," he pleaded, his gasping breath coming in heaves. "Just hold me!"

Brelan gripped his brother. "I've got you."

A violent shudder ran through Conar. He jerked up his head from Brelan's shoulder and stared blindly. "Tell me…about…home," he gasped, his voice strong, although hitching.

"Home?" It was a word that made no sense to Brelan. He stared into Conar's suddenly bright eyes, saw desperation, felt the need. He swallowed. "Boreas? Shall I tell you about the mountains? About Mount Serenia and the snow? About how cold and crisp it is? And how sweet? Or what about the ocean? Shall I tell you about how blue it is? How when the sunlight hits the waves, they turn to silver and lace? What about the forests? The trees are greener than anywhere else. As green as emeralds. As green as…" He stopped, panicking at where his words had almost taken him. He veered off, knew Conar hadn't been fooled.

"As…her…eyes…" came the gentle rebuke.

"And the palace? Remember how splendid the Palace of the Winds is? The marble and the velvet, the gold and precious gems?" He felt Conar tremble, thought he was crying, but when he looked down, he saw the blue eyes dry, narrowed with pain.

"I'll never…never see…her again."

"That's not true." Brelan had felt a trickle of moisture running down the side of his naked chest, over his ribs and under his back, and he realized with a sinking heart that it wasn't sweat from where their bodies touched. Conar was desperately trying not to cry, and there was a silent, catching movement in his chest that was almost indiscernible.

"It's all right," he said, smoothing the blond hair away from Conar's forehead. He placed a light kiss on the flaxen strands.

A torrent of heart-rending sobs broke from Conar's swollen lips; his entire body shook from the depths of his grief.

Tears. Hurt tears, angry tears, tears of self-pity, of self-doubt, of loneliness, emptiness, misery, hopelessness, burst from him like the walls of a collapsing dam. They were tears he had held for years, tears he'd not shed into filthy bedding, had been unable to voice, that were now being shed because they could no longer be contained.

"Let it out," Brelan cooed, gently rocking him, holding his head as he wept, buffeting him as the hard shudders of grief and pain tore through Conar. "Let it all out."

"I…love…you… Brelan," the wretched, breaking voice whispered.

Brelan flinched. "I love you, too."

Hern Arbra was released from the Indoctrination Hut. He stood in the glare of the hot morning sun and stared across the compound to where the other men had broken into small groups to eat their morning meal. His fists clenched as he searched for six men in particular.

It had been too long now, he reminded himself. Too long that he watched Conar undergo abuses and degradation that had become a way of life. Du Mer and Jah-Ma-El had tried to make him understand that it was for Conar's safety to overlook petty torments he had been suffering. Hern no longer agreed. He had spent the last three days chained to the wall, his wrists bleeding, his gut seething with the injustices that were constantly being piled on his former pupil, and now this, this horrible thing that had turned Conar still as death.

"I'll not let it happen again!" Hern bellowed.

Foot tapping impatiently, Hern's eyes furiously darted around. He caught sight of Conar, standing in the hot sun. The boy looked weak, and they were making him scrub pots in the broiling sun! Hern's lips drew back in a grimace. The boy was too sick!

Then, he saw them. Two of them, at least.

They were standing together, laughing, talking, eating, scratching. They looked healthy. They looked clean. They looked…

Hern growled. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails drove into the flesh. He glanced to the man he thought was guarding Conar. He recognized Herndon and knew him to be loyal to the McGregors. He nodded, looked back at the two men, who were now glancing toward Conar.

One of them laughed.

Insides boiling, Hern headed toward the guard standing a few feet from Conar. As Hern used a forced jovial tone filled with false camaraderie, all surrounding talk stopped. Every eye flew to where Conar was kneeling, scrubbing out a wash pot.

"What harm would it do if he was to rest awhile, Herndon? Eat with the rest of us?" Hern asked when Roget, Shalu, and Sentian joined him. "He's been a bit under the weather."

"Under something, I reckon!" one of the two men Hern had spied called.

Hern ignored the jibe and the nervous laughter that followed in sporadic bursts.

"Now, Arbra, you know he can't," Herndon said, uneasily, eyeing Hern's clenched fists that belied his smile. "Why don't you go get you a plate and forget about it?"

"It's a mite hot, don't you think?" Hern's lips froze in a twitching grin meant to reassure the man of his good humor. "A brief lay down is all I'm asking you to allow him."

"I'll lay down the pretty boy!" the guard who had made the earlier vulgar comment said.

"Hern, go, now," Roget pleaded, speaking above the snide comments of the others. "You know Herndon can't allow him to rest. Don't cause trouble. You know what'll happen…"

Hern faced du Mer. "I've let too much happen already."

"I said to let him rest, Herndon," Hern ordered, his face losing its smile.

Lydon Drake stepped out of the Commandant's hut where he had been having his morning meal in the luxury of Appolyon's bedchamber, and looked out over the men. He stepped off the porch, his grin wide.

Hern grew louder with his comments. "Don't you think you and your family owe him a scrap of compassion, Herndon? Wasn't it your lady-wife who he helped get that job in the keep when her family was put off their land by one of Tolkan's kinsmen? Didn't he make your cousin David one of his Elite? Why don't you let him rest?"

"I'll tell you why not," Drake shouted, pushing men out of his way.

Hern turned, seeing the one man he hated almost as much as Kaileel Tohre.

"He's a slave. Not a prisoner, a slave! He was sent here to work, not be mollycoddled. Make one more remark about that little prick, and I'll work him into tomorrow night!" Lydon saw Conar making his way toward them and knew what the boy feared, and he knew the fear wasn't for himself, but for Hern. "Get that traitor back to work," he snapped to Herndon.

"You got a lot to atone for," Hern said, quivering as he shoved Lydon's shoulder.

Drake swung around, pushed Hern. "You want him whipped, buck naked? If not, keep your mouth shut and get the fuck out of my way!"

Hern started forward, then felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun to look into Conar's eyes.

"I can fight my own battles, Hern," Conar said.

In that brief moment before Lydon Drake reacted to the breaking of the rule, Conar shook his head in warning, silently pleading with Hern to leave well enough alone. The words were not there, but the look, scalding Hern Arbra like burning pitch, said far more than words ever could.

Herndon placed himself in front of Conar, not daring to speak to him. He reached out a hand to head Conar back to his work, and was shocked when the young man knocked it away.

One of the two men who had enjoyed the side show caught Conar's arm and shoved him. Conar went down hard in the sand. There was broken pottery on the ground; Conar's hands scraped over the larger pieces. He grunted, then stared at his hand. Blood oozed over the torn flesh.

"Look what you done!" one guard taunted. "You went and made him bleed again!"

Hern roared forward, pushing men out of his way, heading for the man who had shoved Conar. Despite the shouts of guards and prisoners, Shalu's hands grasping for him, Hern plowed into the guard just as Conar struggled to his feet.

"
Hern, don't!"
Conar yelled.

Another guard kicked Conar, sending him crashing to the sand. He rolled, came to his knees and crouched, shaking his head from the impact of the kick. He swung his head, saw Hern knocking down the guards like dominoes. He tried to speak, but saw Drake going for the knife strapped to his huge thigh. Conar's eyes went wide with stark terror. "
No!"

Before he could pitch forward and impale himself on Drake's dagger, before he could save Hern's life, Conar watched in silent horror as Drake buried the knife in Arbra's broad back. Watched as it twisted viciously to the side before being withdrawn.

Hern gasped, plummeted to his knees. Drake pulled back Hern's head, and sliced through the tendons and arteries in the big man's neck.

Conar scrambled on all fours to reach Hern, catching him as he crashed hard to the ground. Conar managed to ease his old friend down on his side. He felt Hern's hand tight around his upper arm, holding himself up with what draining strength he possessed. Blood bubbled out of Hern's mouth and nose, sprayed Conar's chest as he tried hard to speak. A whistling sound came from the gaping cut across Hern's throat; blood poured over Conar's arm.

Conar brought up a trembling hand to stroke Hern's now-white face. The roughness of his fingers bothered him as he tried to smooth the age crinkles around Hern's sad eyes. He was barely aware that he was crying or that his tears were mingling with Hern's.

"I love you, son," Hern managed to whisper.

Conar wished with all his heart that it was him who lay spreading blood into the hard red dirt. Death and dying had become a part of him, a way of life. But it always hurt. It always tore at his vitals with steel claws ripping, shredding each remaining bit of humanity from him.

"You're my son, you know," Hern croaked.

Conar's voice broke. "I know." He'd always felt that Hern was more father to him that his own had been.

"I loved her as much as you love your lady. I loved her as much as I love you."

"I love you, too," Conar said, not really knowing what that word meant any more, almost positive it meant terrible, gut-wrenching pain. He felt Hern's grip on his arm tighten, then fall away. Hern's body sagged in his arms; Conar knew still another part of his life was gone. Gone, forever.

With infinite care, he lowered Hern, cradling one big, strong hand.

Roget and Shalu moved forward, intent on getting Conar away from Drake before there was additional trouble. But a guard's sword brought them up short.

"Get up!" Sentian cautioned Conar.

"Where the hell is Saur?" someone called.

Conar felt a blade caress the side of his neck as though it were a lover's lips searching for the warmth of an artery. He felt a slight sting, a warm trickle of his blood, felt the blade slide shallowly across his flesh enough to scratch it, and barely noticed.

"For the love of Alel, get up, Conar!" Grice warned.

Conar looked directly at the man who had once told Conar he would find him, gut him. The same man who had held his head, staring into his eyes, while five men raped him, abused him.

"Stay there," Lydon said calmly, staring at Conar with ill-concealed humor.

"Get up, boy," Shalu warned. "Don't give him the satisfaction."

"
Shut up, nigger!"
Lydon screamed.

A guard pushed Shalu, blocking him from getting any closer. A sudden spark of defiance filled Conar's heart, one that had not been there since he had first come to this evil place.

Lydon must have seen it, recognized it for what it was, for he caught Chand Wynth, putting the blade to the boy's throat and snarled his hatred. "Get up! I'll kill this little bastard if you don't!"

Very slowly, like a jungle cat uncoiling its body, Conar got to his feet, his eyes locked on Lydon. "You want me, Drake," he said so quietly the men had to strain to hear. "Come and get me."

Drake dropped the knife. He lunged at Conar, but the smaller, quicker man sidestepped out of the roaring man's path. Lydon went sprawling in the dirt.

"Clumsy bastard!" Conar taunted.

A quick smattering of laughter came from the prisoners, but it died quickly when they saw the murderous intent on Lydon's face as he spun around and glared at Conar. All sanity fled the beefy face, replaced with the vileness of an evil so rampant the man reeked of it. He sprang to his feet, bowled his head into Conar's stomach, sending the younger man onto his back.

"
Brelan Saur!"
someone shouted as the two men rolled in the dust. Feet moved quickly aside, making room for the combatants.

"Get him, Drake!" one of Lydon's cronies bellowed. "Beat the shit out of him."

Conar got in a few jabs before Lydon's fingers closed around his windpipe. He struggled for air, but the unrelenting fingers were pressing the life out him. He's going to kill you, his inner voice warned. Stars filled his vision; his world went pitch black for an instant before returning to glaring white light. He looked up, gasping for air, as he saw Brelan dragging Drake off him, then he sank into darkness again.