WindLegends Saga 9: WindRetriever (20 page)

"And blessed are those who have been persecuted in the name of what is right for they have done the will of God. To these, the kingdom of heaven belongs."

Prince Rylan Hesar of Tempest Keep, Virago.

Duke Roget du Mer of Downsgate Keep, Serenia.

Prince Grice Wynth of Seadrift Keep, Oceania.

Lord Jamael McGregor of Boreas Keep, Serenia.

Captain Storm Jale of Boreas Keep, Serenia.

Prince Tyne Brell of Briarcliffe Keep, Chale.

Conar staggered beneath the reading of the names. He had known these men all his life, was kin to two of them by birth, a third by marriage. He had laughed with them, cried with them, eat, drank, and slept with them. He had fought beside them, fought for them, been tortured for them and saw them tortured for him. He had known their love, their respect, their admiration and their devotion. He had killed for them and had had them kill for him. He had been their pupil, their teacher and, most important of all, their friend. He was going to miss them more than he feared he could bear.

"Peace with those who have gone before us," Father Nicki said.

"May His Grace, Prince Rylan, be at peace with God," Ivan said.

"May he rest in God's hands," Catherine chanted with the crowd.

As each name was called out and the responses given, Conar felt the pain in his chest Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 89

lessening. They were such beautiful words, so soothing, so unlike those he had heard all his life.

Spoken by a man with a soft voice and caring, loving eyes and repeated by people who had walked miles just to be there because they had wanted to be. Conar looked around him and understood there was no vengeful god hovering over these people, demanding worship. No frowning god waiting for them to make a mistake so He could pounce on them. No bartering god ready to strike a bargain for a man's immortal soul.

"May these warriors, laid to rest in hallowed ground, live in the eternal light of God and come to know His love," the old priest finished. He stepped away from the altar and reached out to take Conar's hand. "Would you like to say something, my son?"

Conar shook his head. He was as far beyond being able to speak as he was to take flight.

"Gilbert spent some time in Chale several years ago and he has asked if you would have any objections to him and Illa singing a Chalean death rite song as your friends are laid to rest." The old priest watched infinite sorrow well up in the darkest blue eyes he'd ever seen. "He spent all afternoon teaching the rhythm of it to the choirs."

"I...," Conar began and had to clear his throat. "I would ...." He couldn't finish.

"We would like that, Father," Catherine spoke for him.

Sajin stood beside Balizar, listening to the older man's quiet sobs and Azalon's incessant sniffling. He watched Catherine leading Conar around the altar and wondered what his friend's reaction would be to the grave that had been dug behind a low hedge of wildflowers. When he saw Conar stumble and look pointedly away, he started forward.

"He's gotta do this on his own," Balizar whispered in a choked voice. "Can't nobody do it for him, son."

The fourteen by seven foot wide hole, six feet deep, was the most horrendous sight Conar could ever remembering seeing. At first he was offended by the mass grave, but a calm acceptance came over him and he knew his friends would have wanted it this way. From somewhere through the mists of time, he heard Grice's voice speaking to him:

"I can think of no better way to leave this life than with the ones I shared it with."

Catherine looked up at her husband and felt his memory. It tugged at her heart strings and she pulled him closer to her, pleased when he circled her shoulder with his arm.

Sajin jumped as the drums started. He looked around Azalon and saw several men

pounding on odd-looking kettles and wooden planks. An odd sound began to yowl above the steady, mesmerizing beat and many people looked on with wide eyes and open mouths as the shrill, bag-like thing was pumped by Gilbert's arm as he blew into a long reed. Eight young women beat sticks together and on the ground along with the cadence of the drums while several young boys hit iron triangles with small iron bars.

Gilbert nodded at his wife and, in a clear and delicate soprano, the lady began the Song of the Vanquished Warrior.

Although he had heard the song before, Conar could not remember ever hearing it sung with such feeling or performed so beautifully. He knew that wherever Tyne Brell was, the man was grinning from ear to ear.

"The gel is Chalean at heart, Conar! Can't you hear it in her voice?" Tyne would have asked as he wiped away a tear for which he would never have apologized.

As the song chant continued with its mystical beat and hypnotic rhythm, Conar could see flashes of the past moving across his mind's eye.

There was Jamie, arguing with Shalu about taking a bath. And Jamie taking care of him as he lay shivering with Labyrinthian Fever.

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There was Roget, planning a raid with every confidence in the world that his scheme would work. And Roget winking at him when they had beat Teal at a game of cards.

There was Grice, struggling with a barbell it had taken two men to carry in and which he hefted alone with hardly any trouble at all. And Grice arguing with him over doing something the older man thought was reckless.

There was Storm, laughing and playing with Sentian and Thom and Marsh, beating the other men in a foot race. And there was Storm, at his side, sword in hand, protecting Conar's flank.

There was Rylan, limping across the compound, mumbling under his breath, ignoring his little brother's pleas. And Rylan throwing his hands in the air, giving in to what Paegan wanted.

There was Tyne again, his widowmaker flashing as he drove an enemy relentlessly back.

And Tyne nearly beside himself with laughter when he had snagged his own breeches on the end of the Deathwielder.

"He has gone beyond our ken and has stepped into the light. He has gone to make his peace with the Wind."

Conar wondered how many there could understand the Chalean dialect, but he realized it didn't matter for the soft cadence of the words had brought tears to every eye there except his own.

Even if those gathered did not understand, they were absorbing the meaning.

"He will tell them where he's been when he gets to paradise. He has gone to make his peace with the Wind."

Catherine leaned her head against her husband's shoulder and felt him bend down to kiss the top of her head. When she looked up at his face, she was concerned that she saw no moisture in his eyes, but the look he gave her as he lowered his gaze to hers, told her he was all right.

"He will be remembered by his friends who will now take up his fight. He has gone to make his peace with the Wind."

A faint glow caught Conar's attention and he looked out across the glade. He squinted, trying to make out what it was he was seeing. There was a pale blue tint of mist, growing steadily brighter at the top of the hill beyond and for just a moment he grew alarmed. Then he saw the striding figures coming over the hill and he recognized them as they stopped just beyond the circle of torchlight.

"Catherine?" he asked. "Do you see them?"

Cat looked up. "See who, dearling?"

He knew she didn't. He didn't think anyone but he could. They were standing there, shoulder to shoulder, looking at him, smiling gently at him and he saw them lift their hands in greeting.

"He will be with us once again in the peace of afterlife. He has gone to make his peace with the Wind."

He heard the words drifting away on the sea mist and realized the song had ended, but his attention was focused on the bright blue swath of light at the top of the hill. He saw them turn to leave. He wanted to shout, to demand, to beg and plead if need be to keep them standing there, smiling at him, forgiving him, but as the soft sigh of sound reached him, he drew in his breath on a harsh gasp of pain.

"Prince of the Wind...," the night air whispered.

Catherine heard the words. Sajin did, too. Both looked to the place where Conar was staring, but saw nothing there. They looked at the Outlander and found him smiling for the first time since Abbadon.

"Conar?" Catherine questioned.

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Her husband shook his head. They were looking back over their shoulders at him, laughing.

Not with scorn or contempt or anger, but with the ease of long-standing friendships.

"May the Wind be at your back, Conar McGregor," he heard Tyne say. "And give that gel a kiss for me! She's Chalean at heart!"

"I'll see you again, cousin," Rylan called out. "Give Paegan my best."

"Look out for that bastard brother of mine, will ya, McGregor?" Roget laughed. "You know how he is."

"Remember to lift with you legs, Conar; not your back!" Grice warned him. "Don't let Chand grieve too long."

"Tell Marsh it's up to him and Thom to keep you out of trouble from now on, milord Conar," Storm joked.

And Jamie's shy voice drifted back to him. "I love you, little brother."

"We all love you," they said in unison and then they walked over the crest of the hill and vanished. Very slowly the bright blue mist faded until there was nothing left in the night sky but the twinkling stars.

Sajin eased past several of the altar boys and reached Conar's side, staring at the look on his friend's face. He turned, saw nothing at all Conar could be watching. He put a hand on the Serenian's shoulder. "Are you all right, Conar?"

Conar nodded. "I am now." He pulled Catherine to him, his eyes still on the hill. "I am now."

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Catherine's hand was warm and dry in his own as the two of them walked slowly back to the keep. Conar had stayed behind, long after the four men who had dug the grave of the Serenian's friends had filled it in again. He had been quiet, withdrawn, as the rich black soil was shoveled into the gaping maw of the grave, but there was no longer a haunted look in his dark gaze as the last spade full was spread over the mound and tamped down. No longer were his shoulders slumped, his back bowed beneath his grief or his face filled with deep, irrevocable sadness. As he walked, he kept his head down, but not out of the burden of what he had just been through, but rather from the unfamiliarity of the terrain upon which he traveled.

"Are there certain days when your church is open to visitors?" he asked, glancing at his wife.

Catherine shook her head. "Anyone may go there at any time, milord." Her fingers tightened in his. "Would you like me to take you there tomorrow?" At his silent nod, she smiled and returned her attention to the pathway before them.

"This religion of yours," he began, seeming to need clarification of what he had witnessed that eve, "Is the dogma difficult to understand?" When she seemed to puzzle over his question, he shrugged. "Are there mysteries that require years of study in order to participate in the ceremonies?"

The lines of misunderstanding smoothed out of Cat's brow. "No, not in the way you mean."

She put her free hand on his arm and held it, bringing her closer to his warmth. "The precepts are simple, really. Our whole religion is based on love and forgiveness."

Conar stopped walking and turned to look down at her. Her answer seemed to surprise him.

"Forgiveness for things you have done in your life?"

She nodded. "And forgiveness for things you may do in the future."

His brows drew together in a frown. "No matter how vile the transgression?"

"There is no sin that can not be forgiven, milord. If you truly are sorry for what you have done and ask for forgiveness, you will be granted absolution. Ours is a loving and caring God."

Conar continued walking, wondering at a deity that did not need pain and suffering to be appeased. Such a concept was alien to him, beyond imagining, but the hope it held for him was like a beacon lighting up the darkness of his night.

"I felt something tonight," he said, stopping at the gravel pathway leading to the stables.

"Something I can't explain." He let go of her hand and leaned against the cold stone wall of the keep. "It was like a calming. A peacefulness I had no right to feel."

Her husband's voice was soft, full of confusion and the need to make sense of the emotions clouding his mind. She reached out to cup his cheek and smiled as he closed his eyes and leaned his face into the palm of her hand.

"You have just as much right to feel at peace with yourself as any of us, milord," she answered. "Maybe even more so considering the anguish you have suffered these last few years.

Why do you feel you should not have it?"

Conar let out a long breath. "By all that is right, Catherine, I should be lying up there with my men." He turned his head toward the grave where so much of his life was buried. "I should have been the one to answer for Jaborn's vengefulness. Not my friends. It was me he hated. Me, he wished to hurt." He ran his hand through his hair. "I should have died in their place."

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A pain of fear and hurt shot through Catherine's breast and she had the wild urge to berate him for such defeatist talk, but she knew his heart was filled with guilt at that moment. He was ashamed that he still lived while those he loved had died. He did not understand why he felt peace in the face of such terrible despair.

"Every man must find the way to his creator, milord," she told him. "For some, it is an easy path. For others, it requires sacrifice and suffering. And there are those, like you, who find it in the midst of death."