WINDHEALER (29 page)

In du Mer's heart and soul, he wondered if Conar McGregor would ever be normal again.

Conar felt someone watching him, but seeing no one, he went back to contemplating the serene garden. He dangled his bare feet in the pool, smiling as the darting goldfish scurried away. He stilled, waiting for another curious fish to inspect his toes, laughing as the inquisitive fellow nibbled at him, then flitted away.

He looked at the sky peeking through the tresses of a spreading willow and marveled at its crisp blue color. An occasional bird soared across the azure expanse, but not a cloud marred the blue perfection.

Just as the horizon was devoid of clouds, so were his eyes beginning to lose the clouds that had dulled them. After years of sand, rock, and glaring white light, the garden, dappled with shadows and lit with the pleasant streaks of filtered sunlight, the gentle breeze playing among the lush foliage, brought him peace. The sight of green growing things felt calming to his system, so long denied the fruits of life. He reveled in the clean, sweet smell of the flowers and grass; he listened to the cooing of birds in the trees, the squall of a peacock in the farther section of the garden.

He was mending spiritually, sewing together the torn pieces of his rent world, piecing together his life to make it whole again. The man, himself, might still be ripped apart inside, might yet unravel altogether, but his world, at least, was once more intact—a fresh bolt of cloth being made ready for the pattern of his new life.

There it was again. That feeling of being watched.

He casually turned his head, surveyed the trees, the pagoda nearby where a shrine to one of his uncle's people was housed. He didn't see anyone, but he didn't sense danger, either. He just knew someone was watching him, so he bided his time, looking into the swirling water where a larger goldfish had scampered away at his slight movement.

A little giggle.

He narrowed his eyes, shifted them from side to side, trying to catch whoever was teasing him with their presence. He heard a muffled voice, another stifled giggle, then a faint rustling in the azalea bushes. When he looked that way, he saw nothing.

Another giggle, a command to silence, then the pale flash of blue silk.

A little boy of about five stood close to the thick trunk of a gnarled tree, almost hidden in its shadow. He was peering out from behind the trunk, a shy smile on his round face. When he saw Conar looking at him, he covered his mouth to hold back a giggle, then slipped behind the trunk.

"I don't bite," Conar called in a soft voice. He had almost made up his mind to go to the tree when the boy emerged from behind the trunk and hesitantly walked to the pool. He didn't say a word, just sat beside Conar and stared into the water.

He was content to let the silence continue. The boy began to swirl his feet in the pool, scaring away the fish. Conar laid a gentle hand on the boy's knee, shook his head, put a finger to his lips and pointed at the fish huddled together at the far side of the oval pool. The child nodded and stilled instantly, watching as the fish moved out in widening circles toward this new oddity in their pool.

Conar felt another presence. He saw two children, walking hand and hand, sidling toward him. The younger of the two, a little girl of about two, had her thumb in her mouth, but was smiling at him around the obstruction. He nodded as they came to sit at the opposite side of the pool, throwing the goldfish into panic once more.

"Shhhh!" the boy told them. He pointed at his still feet.

The newcomers understood and nodded.

They began to drift toward Conar in twos and threes then, Chrystallusian children, no older than ten, no younger than two, he thought. They sat around the pool, everywhere but to his immediate right, ringing it completely. He counted fifteen sets of inquisitive, cheerful, shy eyes that held no fear of him. If anything, he realized with a blush, they found him amusing, for they would catch him looking their way and duck their heads. They didn't speak, just giggled.

Something came into his line of vision to his right. He looked to find a beautiful yellow rose being held out to him. He glanced into the face of an older child—twelve, thirteen, he couldn't tell—and took the flower, brought it to his nose and smiled.

"Thank you." He held out his hand to her, instinctively knowing the place beside him had been purposefully left for this child. She put her tiny hand in his and he helped her to sit.

He looked around at them, curious to know what they wanted. He knew from experience that Chrystallusians were a polite race and did things their own way. He waited for one of the children, he suspected the eldest, to give him some indication of their purpose.

"I believe they are waiting for you to tell them a story," came an amused voice. He turned and found his aunt watching him.

His brows drew together in confusion. "A story?"

"I promised them you would tell them a story or two."

"I should have known," he snorted gently, eyeing her with admonishment.

"Be gentle with him, children," she said as she walked on.

He laughed and glanced around the group. "A story, huh?"

"Uh, hum," was the group reply.

He looked at the rose. There was a story of a rose, half-remembered from long ago, and it hurt him. He had told it once. He looked up, his eyes full of pain, and he felt a hand tug his left sleeve. He found the boy who had started the exodus to him, frowning.

"Story," he said in a clipped, authoritative voice, his eyes screwed into a gentle rebuke.

"Tell us about the Outlaw," the oldest girl said. He could see the dreamy, infatuated face of a young woman looking back at him.

"We
know
that story, Blossom!" the little boy said. "She
always
wants to hear about the Outlaw, Syn-Jern Sorn!"

"Tell us something new, Uncle Conar!" a girl said, giving him the title of respect Chrystallusian children were taught from birth.

He took a deep breath, searching his memory for an appropriate story.

"
Any
story will do," said the boy who seemed to enjoy putting emphasis on his words.

"What's your name?" Conar asked.

"Kehoe. A
very
masculine name in our society."

Conar hid a smile. "Without doubt."

"Do you know any stories about magical animals?" a girl asked.

A memory stirred. Conar's face brightened. He gazed around the group and smiled. "I bet you've never heard the story about Maude Graystone's piglet and the privy, have you?"

The children looked at one another, then back to him, and shook their heads.

He rubbed his hands together. "Thank you Meggie Ruck," he said out of the corner of his mouth and began his tale.

Throughout the afternoon, he regaled them with stories of strange contraptions Maude's grandmother had invented. Had them in stitches as he related the story of Greta Habersham's runaway windmill. Had them wide-eyed and open-mouthed as he spun the tale of how Tandie Janachek's husband, Mort, had lost his hair one night to a hobgoblin named Ball Ness, the monster from the Loss O' Hare Lagoon. Had them eating out of his hand as he wove story after story from the assortment in his memory.

When the light faded and the children were called by soothing voices to come inside for the evening, he smiled at each one as they came to kiss his cheek. That it was his scarred cheek they kissed did not escape his notice. He watched them go, waving to them as they disappeared into the palace, then drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly.

It had been a good day.

"Ball Ness?" a dry voice asked from behind.

He looked around to see his uncle frowning at him. "That's what they say took his hair," Conar said with a perfectly straight, perfectly innocent face.

"Umm," his uncle remarked and walked on, his hands behind his back, his nose in the air. He stopped, turned, and asked in a toneless voice, "And precisely
where
is this Loss O' Hare Lagoon?"

"North of Lake Myria and to the east of Lake Meadow."

"Ah! That lagoon!" Tran continued on.

Conar chuckled.

It had been a
very
good day, eh, Kehoe? he mused.

* * *

A tiny smile played on his full mouth as he heard Se Huan's tinkling laughter from the gazebo at the other end of the path. He had learned to distinguish her musical chimes from those of the other ladies of the court. Her merry laughter rang out, seeming to cover the other women's, he thought, or else, he had just grown accustomed to hearing it and now listened for it. Smiling, he pictured her delicate beauty and his heart felt at once light and carefree. She had been good for him.

He was finally pushing aside the melancholy that permeated his life for so long. After six months in the Imperial Palace of Binh Tae, he seemed to be stabilizing and was content. He knew Se Huan was chiefly responsible for his newfound peace of mind, but the children, who more often than not sought him out, had done more than their share to heal him. Their influence of laughter and playfulness had caused his grief to scab over; Se Huan's teasing introductions into the sometimes confusing, always exasperating, mind of a Chrystallusian maid, gave him something other than his miserable past to think about. She nursed him when the nightmares came, chased away the demons, made sure he slept untouched by the evils in his mind. The children brought smiles to his lips, joy to his heart, and peace to his soul.

He lay on his back on the green velvet of his aunt's croquet court, his hands crossed under his head, and stared into the slightly overcast day where scuttling clouds formed magical and mysterious patterns above. No one would look for him here and he was more than content to spend a day to himself.

He reached down to his neck. Pulling his braid over his shoulder, he toyed with it, amused that it now reached below his shoulder blades. He grinned, thinking of Se Huan's insistence on braiding it every morning.

"I can do it, Se Huan," he'd admonished.

"But I like doing it," she'd answered, her fingers deftly looping the three thick strands together before tying them with a short strip of rawhide.

"How long are you going to let that thing grow?" Tyne had sneered only that morning.

"Until it reaches my ass," Conar answered, his lips stretching into a guileless smirk.

That wasn't true, he thought as he lay there in the cool grass. The braid was as long as he was going to allow it to grow. It had simply become an outward symbol of his freedom, a rebellion against the forced cutting of his hair at the Labyrinth. Just the simple ability to govern how he wore his hair meant more to Conar than he could explain.

He threaded his fingers together, placed them on his belly, and crossed his ankles. A gentle breeze wafted over him. He felt the tug of sleep making his lids heavy. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.

When the shadow moved over him, he didn't flinch.

He slowly opened his eyes.

What he saw would have caused him fear, unnerved him, any other time. Now, thanks to the healing power of his aunt's people, he was merely curious about the tall, thin man who stood over him, blocking out what little light there was in the gathering gray. He felt no threat even though he couldn't see the face hidden in the shadows beneath the halo of light. Somehow he knew the man was smiling. He smiled back, then sat up and clasped his knees within the perimeter of his arms.

"Have you been made welcome, King Conar?" The man's voice was deep, cultured, with an odd accent.

"I have been treated very well, thank you." He motioned for the man to sit beside him.

Gracefully folding his tall frame to the grass, the man crossed his legs beneath him and sat facing Conar. His long, slender hands were lightly clasped together in his lap. His hair was jet black everywhere but at the temples, which were fanned with shocks of elegant white. His thick eyebrows slashed across a high forehead and his aquiline nose sat boldly between high, aristocratic cheekbones. His eyes were pale blue; clear, sharp, and direct eyes that did not look at Conar so much as absorb him.

By his dark mahogany coloring and long coarse hair, left hanging to his waist in two long braids, the man could not have been a Chrystallusian, even though his eyes were slightly slanted.

"I am of the People," he said in way of answer.

"Those who settled in Serenia before my ancestors?" The man inclined his head. "There's a strong resemblance between you and the Chrystallusians," Conar remarked.

"Ancestors."

"Distant, though."

The man nodded. "Do you know who I am?"

"The man I have been expecting."

He held out his hand. "I am Occultus Noire."

Conar gripped the man's wrist with his hand. He felt the deceptive strength in those thin fingers as they rounded his wrist. The fingernails were clipped short and no color adorned the surface. When the hand withdrew, Conar felt the puckered scars within the man's palm.

"Souvenirs from our mutual enemy," Occultus said, holding his hands, palms out, to Conar. He let his gaze wander over Conar. There was a long moment of consideration before he spoke again. "I can see why Tohre is so obsessed with you. You are an exceptionally beautiful man."

Conar stiffened, his face turning hard.

Occultus shook his head. "I am not like Kaileel Tohre." He looked closely at his companion. "And neither are you."

"I hope not."

Occultus smiled. "You would know if you were!" His warm eyes twinkled with laughter. "I fear you have enjoyed the female population of your culture far too much and entirely too often to be anything other than heterosexual."

"Those days are over," Conar said bitterly, looking away.

Occultus touched Conar's scarred cheek. "Do these scars hurt you?"

Conar tensed him, but felt no repulsion at the light caress. Occultus' palm was cool, dry, his face mildly curious.

"They hurt," he answered, moving his head just enough to put distance between him and the questing fingers.

Occultus dropped his hand. "But the pain is not in the flesh; it is in the soul, am I right? Do the other scars on your body hurt you as badly as the ones on your face?"

Conar shrugged. "I don't feel anything on my back anymore. You could probably lay hot coals on it and I wouldn't feel it."