WINDWEEPER (15 page)

"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 did
not
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."