WINDWEEPER (4 page)

Liza watched as Conar stood facing the wind, his ripe wheat-colored hair blowing wildly about his head. He had a firm stance on the rolling deck beneath his bare feet. One sun-bronzed hand gripped the tall spar that rose beside him. He had left his shirt in the cabin when he had gone out earlier that morning, and a fine glistening of salt spray clung to his torso, mingling with the fine hair between his taut, manly breasts.

He threw back his head and gazed at the sun. Liza wondered why he didn't seem to feel the chill of the late fall day as she did. The smile on his upturned face told her he felt little save the warmth of the love they had found once more.

As though her thoughts had touched him, caressed him with their intensity, he looked at her. His smile deepened. He removed his hand from the spar, extending it toward her.

Coming eagerly to his side, she snuggled into his arms, inhaling the sweet fragrance of salt spray, the aroma of the cinnamon scent he wore, and the pleasant smell that was entirely Conar. His strong arms enclosed her and she was content to feel the strength that held her securely to him. His lips brushed the top of her head before he laid his cheek where he had kissed her.

"Is she settled in?" he asked, rocking her gently.

"Aye, she is. Fed, changed, and being spoiled by whoever
happens
to go by our cabin." She smiled and chuckled.

"Who would spoil her, Liza?"

She looked up at him. "Who, indeed, Milord?"

"I've not spoiled her, Liza," he retorted. "Now, Storm and Sentian and Thom and Marsh and Gezelle have spoiled her, but not me. I will never spoil her. I will be wise and gentle and caring to her, instructing her in the courtly ways, teach her what not to do and say around boys. I will be—"

"Putty in her hands."

He grinned. "That, too."

Laughing at the firm expression on her husband's handsome face, she tickled him. "I knew
that
the moment you first laid eyes on her, Milord!"

"Who is with her now?" he asked, easing away from her probing fingers.

She laughed. "That most excellent and diligent of nannies, Marsh Edan."

Conar nodded. "It's time he had a little one of his own. He dotes on her, doesn't he?"

"That he does." She smiled thinking of Marsh's big hands cupping their tiny daughter the first time he had held her.

"Will she break if I drop her?" the Elite had asked nervously.

"Are you planning on dropping her?" Sentian snapped at his friend.

A smirk lit Marsh's face. "Well, of course not!"

"Then you've got nothing to worry about," Thom informed him.

The four—Sentian, Marsh, Storm, and Thom—had been gathered around the babe's cradle, oohing and ahhing. None of them had seen Liza standing in the doorway as they gently picked up their Overlord's daughter and took turns holding her.

"She's a beauty like her mother," Storm said wistfully, obviously missing his own wife and children.

But it was Marsh who spent most of his time in the cabin with the babe, Marsh who held her and could make her stop crying when no one else could, Marsh who gazed at the babe with such longing and love. It was Marsh Edan, that stalwart Elite, who had stayed up with her all night when she had the colic.

"I think if you give him half the chance, he'll steal her from us," Conar now remarked, hugging his wife as they stood in the brisk ocean breeze. "We've got to find him a wife."

Once, he had thought of Gezelle for the warrior, but the two had never hit it off. If truth were told, it was Prince Chand Wynth who held Gezelle's attention. It was too bad such alliances were forbidden.

Liza trembled.

"Are you cold?" Conar asked, holding her closer.

"Not really. I just…" She looked around, something nudging her sixth sense. "I don't know. I guess it's just that I'm still a little tired. Where's Brownie?"

"Sleeping on the captain's bunk." Conar chuckled. "I think she has a crush on the man."

Liza nodded absently. As her husband had the day before, she had been having sensations since early morn and the hairs along her neck were stirring. She looked at the horizon, but the sky was clear.

Conar carefully eyed her. He had felt the tremor along with something else, something he couldn't quite name. He turned his scrutiny to the sky, a puzzled frown wrinkling his forehead.

"Do you feel that?" he asked. "The vibrations?" He looked at her as she stiffened.

She glanced up at him. "Then you feel something, too? The same as yesterday?"

"No, this is different. I've been feeling this ever since we cleared your coastline last eve and tacked toward Serenia." A grim expression settled on his face. "Something in the wind." He eased his arms from her and walked to the ship's rail, bracing his hand on the rolled teak edge. He looked out to sea. "I've felt it all morning."

"And that's why you've been standing here."

She put her hand on his forearm and felt his tension. "I feel as though someone is watching our every move."

"Aye. Me, too."

All morning he had been at the rail, searching, listening, probing with his newfound energy. During the time he had spent on the island, he had worked hard to learn about the powers bestowed on him at birth. With Liza's help, he had tested his magik and had learned to control it.

Though it still frightened him, he had come to grips with it. Loath to use it, he knew that, should he need to, the power would be there at his command. But with giving in to accepting the magik within him, he had also given in to the premonitions and feelings inherent with such a supernatural ability.

And today's
feelings
had only underscored the power he knew he could wield. The unease that had settled on his shoulders made it impossible for him not to sense the danger he knew lay ahead.

Something wasn't right, but he couldn't tell what. He simply kept vigil, his senses attuned to air that was slightly charged with unusual vibration; the sensation played along his nerve-endings.

Although everything seemed normal, his power told him otherwise. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nothing caught his attention. The sun beamed down to warm the cool day. Gulls flew by the ship, following at a discreet distance, and dolphins surfaced occasionally to call their greetings. All seemed oblivious to the undercurrents he felt.

He glanced toward the western horizon and saw only the bright wash of blue and orange, but he felt a shiver go through him; at that exact moment Liza tightened her hand around his arm. She had felt it, too.

"Do you know what it is?" she asked.

Another quiver went through him and he tensed even more. "Go below, Elizabeth," he said, his gaze on the far horizon.

"Why?" she asked, her eyes mirroring the worry she saw reflected in his.

"I want you to go below."

She touched his face. "You are my mate. I stand with you before whatever this is."

"Did you feel that?" he asked as a sudden tremor of pure unease settled over him. "This is not some minor rift in the Veil, Liza. This is something evil heading our way."

She looked to the far horizon, squinting. She trembled at his words. "You should be able to turn away whatever it is that lurks out there. I knew long ago your strength was much sharper, your power more refined than my own, although I believe mine is the more lethal."

He looked away from her probing green inquiry. "It wasn't something I wanted, Liza." He shook his head in denial, frowning.

"Once the gods give a gift such as ours, Conar, it can never be revoked, only lessened. It can be chained, be made dormant, but it will never entirely disappear. Those of us who are blessed—"

"Or cursed."

"It's not a curse. You just can't let it rule you, that's all." She saw his frown deepen. "Your power doesn't come just from the Red Path, Milord. It also comes from the White. From the Ancients who walked the Right Hand Way. Mine comes strictly from the Blue Path, from the Multitude. Since good and evil are mated, and then mixed with the Old Ways, our combined strengths are so powerful there is little we cannot either hinder or stop altogether when we are side by side."

"The power Kaileel invested in me is purely evil, Liza. It corrupts. It destroys. It tried to destroy me! One day it just might."

"Only if you will allow it to do so. Or let it use you for evil." She touched his cheek. "There is not much chance of that happening. There is still a great amount of good in you."

His head turned toward her. "So Tohre once told me. I hope that is true, for I will die before I let it corrupt me again." He took her arm and walked toward the hatchway. "Go below. Let's see how well the bastards taught me."

She eased her arm out of his grip. "Let me stay until we know what is out there."

"Elizabeth!" he warned, his voice brooking no argument. "Don't try me, woman! I have given you an order, Madame, and I expect you to obey me!"

He watched her face redden, her nose tilt into the air, and knew he had said the very worst thing he possibly could have said. He had not meant to be so overbearing, to sound like a chauvinist, but the intense tremors shooting constantly through his body—his every nerve tingling as though he stood in a lightning storm—made him fear for her safety.

His only thought had been to get her below before whatever calamity was headed their way could strike. Seeing the mulish look on his wife's face caused him to groan and look to the heavens. "Shit," he said under his breath.

"I stay, Sir!"

"Storm coming, Your Grace!" the lookout shouted from the crow's nest. The man was pointing to the southern sky.

Heads turned.

Dark, swooping clouds were boiling from both the southern and eastern stretches of the sky; blending, swirling, clashing together beneath the brilliant red globe of the sun, they filled the entire vista with an ominous sweep of foreboding.

Lightning zagged from the heavens, demarcating the place where the black clouds overtook the bright blue sky. The clouds rolled, folded in upon themselves and a loud boom shot across the water toward the ship as another crack of lightning flared, hissing as it hit the water. A horrible stench wafted toward them.

"Raphian," Conar said, grimly.

He had known all along. They were coming at him with Their fiercest warrior, Their greatest killer. He had won their last encounter. Would he, could he, win this one? He looked at his wife with concern, but her face was calm, untroubled, and she met his gaze with purpose, a tiny smile on her mouth, a definitive glow on her lovely face.

"I've often wondered what He smelled like." She wrinkled her nose as the brimstone stench and aroma of burning flesh came toward them. "It's as bad as I thought!"

She raised her hand and make a lazy figure eight in the air. The faint smell of lavender filled the air, cleansing it of the noxious fumes of Raphian's coming.

"I don't care for the odor, Milord," she said.

He grinned. "Neither do I, Milady."

Liza held out her hand. "Then, let's fight the bastard together!"

He took her hand in his, feeling an immense surge in the power coursing through him.

"It magnifies the strength when we touch, Milord. The Purple Pathway is opening, linking your power with mine. You will know what to do. The words are there, waiting for you to say them. You can close the Doorway into the Abyss without me, but with our combined strength, we can do it quicker and easier. You can send Him back."

Looking out over the ocean, Conar felt his body tingling with the rush of adrenaline. His breath came in deep heaves. His head felt as though every hair stood on end.

A pulling, drawing sensation filled him with concern. A feeling in the pit of his stomach brought bile to his throat. He could sense the Calling from the storm and tried to blot out the insidious, beckoning voice. Images of violent death and blood flashed before him and he strove harder to stop the images from coming.

"They call to you, Conar," his wife warned. "You can resist Them."

"They'll not give me up so easily this time. Not with you beside me."

His head began to ache with blinding fury, throbbing as though a million drums pounded inside. His mouth tasted of blood, hot and metallic, gagging him, turning his face a white plain of misery.

"They are coming for you, beloved." She closely watched his face. "Fight Them, Conar. Don't answer Their Call. Don't give in to It." Her eyes were worried, for his had taken on a feral glare that put pinpoints of silver in the azure depths. Her entire being depended on this confrontation; her life, and the life of their child, might well depend on how well her husband could wield his magic.

The smell of lavender intensified until the air seemed to bloom with the heady fragrance. The sea had taken on a murky green color, glistening with sparkles of light in its heaving, cresting depths. A sharp trill of high-pitched voices rose over the waves, echoing across the ship until the men put their hands over their ears to blot out its painful shrillness.

"The Daughters of the Sea have come to fight alongside us, Conar!" Liza called. She saw him shiver, felt his hand jerk in hers. "They will aid you. You belong to Them, Conar. The Lady Warriors of the Deep, the Mighty Protectoresses of the Multitude will aid you."

The siren call grew in volume. It filled the heavens, absorbing the boom of thunder and hiss of lightning that now fell only a few yards from the ship's bow. It drove men to run below decks to try to silence the eerily beautiful song wafting over the
Seachance
. Only the sailor in the crow's nest was left and he was nearly unconscious from the piercing sound.

Conar felt the song flowing over him, strengthening him, calming him, drowning out the Calling of the other. The shrill cry did not bother him. He found the music pleasant, encouraging. He sucked it deep into his soul, held it, and took courage from the words in the melody.

"
No!
" a terrible voice boomed from the heavens, setting the timbers of the deck trembling. "
I will not allow this interference!"

With a violent lurch, Conar felt as though his body was being torn apart. His stomach began to cramp much as it had during his initiation. He doubled over, going to his knees with the pain. He felt pulled from two directions at once and realized with a suddenness that left his head reeling that this had happened to him before. Two separate forces were tearing him, each wanting his very soul.