WINDWEEPER (43 page)

"How loyal I
am
to him, Lord Saur. Just 'cause he's gone don't make me any the less loyal to his memory."

"I can appreciate that."

"Can you?"

Brelan fused his gaze with Holm's. "It took me a long time to admit it even to myself, Holm, but I loved him. Very much."

Holm shifted his scrutiny away from the guilty pain in Brelan's face. He seemed to be making up his mind to do something. A hard, cold look of intense agony filled the sea captain's eyes. "I have a daughter, Lord Brelan. Did I tell you that last time we met?"

Brelan shook his head.

"She's a pretty little thing, my Jenny. I reckon she has the most beautiful gray eyes you'll ever see. She's tiny, no more than a wisp; about so tall." He held up his hand to his shoulder. "Her complexion is fair, all ivory and roses, like my wife, Maree. And her hair is as pale as moonlight in winter." His face clouded. "She used to sing as sweetly as the canaries on Barris Isle. You could hear her singing as she skipped about the fields behind our cottage. She liked to go gathering flowers on the hillside, daisies, mostly. She'd make these little crownlets for her and her mama."

Brelan watched as something turned dark and evil in Holm van de Lar.

"She was out gathering some of those daisies the day one of the Temple Guards came riding by. I saw him when he first rode by. It wasn't too long before Jenny went out to get her daisies. That guard must have pulled off the roadway to watch until she was out of sight of me and her mama."

Pain filled the captain's face. "I didn't think nothing of it. He hadn't stopped, you see, so I had no reason to think ill of him. He even tipped his hat, as I recall." Bitter resentment flushed the man's cheeks. "He was a big man, he was; name of Lydon. Used to wrestle at the fairs. I put a few coins down on him once. He was a brute; never lost a fight."

A hard shudder went through Holm's big frame. His eyes shifted away from Brelan's as though he was striving to see the man in his mind. "He weren't bad-looking. The ladies all seemed to want him. His hair was blond and he had a right pleasant smile."

There was such hate and misery in the sea captain's face that Brelan wanted to lay a comforting hand on the wide shoulder, but he sensed that would have been the worst thing to do.

"I think you can imagine what that son-of-a-bitch did to my Jenny, Lord Brelan." His deep bass voice cracked with emotion. Tears were shining, spilling over with hard-etched pain. "We weren't for sure if she'd live 'cause she was bleeding so bad." A hitching sob tore through the man and he bit his lip.

"How old was she, Holm?" Brelan asked softly, totally unprepared for the answer.

"Two days shy of her seventh birthday." Holm hunched forward over the table. " That bastard ripped her so bad the Healer had a time stitching her closed. He told us if she hadn't been found when she was, she'd have bled to death there in the meadow!"

"You got to her in time, I take it?"

One meaty hand grabbed Saur's arm in a tight, punishing grip. "You asked me how loyal I am to His Grace? It was him what found her. It was His Grace what brought her home. The sight of him carrying my baby girl, blood dripping down his arms and legs, will be in my memory forever!"

Brelan had another memory of a man carrying a bleeding child in his arms, but he shook it off.

"He laid her in her mama's arms and sent me after the Healer. I wanted to go after that son-of-a-whoring-bitch, but he wouldn't let me. He told me he would take care of it. When he told you something, you believed it, 'cause he'd do it if it was the last thing he did this side of hell!"

Although his arm was going numb from the pressure of that hard, sea-callused hand, Brelan didn't flinch as Holm tugged on it. He covered the wide fingers with his own. "He found the guard?"

"Found him and brought him back for Jenny to identify!"

"Was she able to?"

"The fear of that fellow was in Jenny's eyes. I saw it as soon as His Grace jerked that bastard's head up by his hair. His Grace saw it, too. Despite everything, Jenny recognized him."

"Despite what?"

A look of satisfaction entered the man's moist face. "His Grace must have had the fury of the gods in him that day, Lord Brelan. If you'd seen his face, you'd know what I mean. He weren't no more than eighteen, I'm thinking. He was slight back then. I bet you he didn't weigh no more'n hundred-fifty. But he marked up that fellow so good you couldn't recognize his face. He come riding back about two weeks later with that man, Lydon, slung over the saddle of that big black beast of his…what was that horse's name?"

"Seayearner."

"Aye! Seayearner!" Holm smiled a little. "Good name for a steed." He seemed to be focusing on a memory of the horse. "Where is that mighty beastie, Lord Brelan?"

"At Downsgate. The du Mer estate. Can't nobody ride him, but…" He looked away.

"A sight that was to see," Holm sighed. His fingers relaxed on Brelan's arm.

"What happened?" Brelan sighed with relief as Holm withdrew his hand, seeming to become aware that he might be hurting Brelan.

Van de Lar mentally shook himself. He focused again and shivered.

"If you don't want to talk about it, we don't have to."

"It's just that she used to sing all the time and chatter." His lips quivered in a smile. "Used to be we couldn't shut her up! She'd rattle on and on until you thought you'd scream. She'd ask all these questions. Question after question. Why this? How come? When?" His voice trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. "Ain't talked a day since; ain't never sung again."

"But she was able to tell you that guard was the man who hurt her, wasn't she?"

Holm clasped his huge hands together, lacing the rough fingers. It took him a moment to compose himself. There were tears on his weathered cheeks. "When His Grace rode up with that man, my Maree went out to meet him. I was in the stable saddling my nag 'cause I meant to go looking for the bastard myself since I hadn't heard nothing from His Grace." The blue eyes narrowed as though to make a point. "I weren't worried that he'd keep his word, Lord Brelan. I was worried that that fellow might have hurt him. When I dragged that worthless horseflesh out of the stable, I saw His Grace getting down from that black beastie of his and I saw that bastard slung over his saddle. I felt like whooping to the gods when he jerked that piece of shit off that horse of his and the bastard crumpled on the ground at His Grace's feet!"

"Was he dead?"

"I was hoping he was!"

"And that's when Jenny identified him?"

"She must have been looking out the window, 'cause she come out on the porch and stood watching. His Grace called to her. She looked like she'd bolt, but he was persistent. Wouldn't let her mama and me go get her, neither. He just hunkered on the ground, stayed that way a long time, just talking to her. His voice was so kind, so gentle. It took her a long time, but she finally came off the porch and walked out to where he was kneeling. When she saw that man, she almost ran, but His Grace asked if that was the bad man who had hurt her 'cause he wanted to make sure he didn't hurt no other girls. At first she wouldn't look at him, but he started telling her all about his daughters and such and how much he loved them, what their names were, what they looked like. He told her he wanted to see the bad man punished if he was the one who had hurt such a pretty girl.

"He told her the man would never hurt her again, but he had to make sure he had the right one to punish, 'cause if he weren't, it would be wrong." Holm shook his head. "Jenny looked at him; she took a step or two toward him. His Grace reached out a hand and she walked right up to him and nuzzled her cheek in his palm. I wouldn't have thought it possible, considering what had happened, but he opened his arms and she went right into them. She held on to him like she was drowning. When he asked if that was the bad man, she nodded. He kissed her on the head, then eased her into my arms."

"He always had a way with children," Brelan said, his own voice thick with an alien emotion he didn't fully understand.

Holm wiped at his cheek. "He took that fellow back to Boreas. Had the bastard whipped, too. I was told he even tried to get him hanged, but that Priest wouldn't have none of that."

"Tohre?"

"The black-hearted son-of-a-demon! His Grace ain't been the only one that sorcerer has hurt. His Grace went to the Tribunal and it was them that sent the bastard to the Labyrinth instead of hanging him. But I've heard things about him since, Lord Saur. He ain't no prisoner. He's a guard!"

"A man like that should have been castrated," Brelan replied. "I'm surprised Conar didn't…" He saw Holm nodding.

"It might not have been His Grace that did it while that son-of-a-bitch was in the dungeon, but he had it done!"

Brelan smiled. Conar would have done just that. "He must have been furious when Tohre did no more than ship the bastard off to prison."

"That he was. He told me he'd see to it that the man never returned to Serenia. Now that His Grace is gone, that man might come back thinking it's safe." Holm turned a fierce scowl to Brelan. "But I'm here to tell you, that ain't gonna be the way of it. If he ever steps foot on this soil again, he'll not live long enough to enjoy it."

"That would be the way Conar would have wanted it."

"And it'll be the way I'll see it done!" Holm took Brelan's arm again, but this time his grip was light. "I owe him, Lord Brelan, more than I can ever repay." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "His little brothers are safe from the bastards what took his life."

Brelan searched the hard blue gaze regarding him. "Coron and Dyllon?"

Holm nodded his head in one quick, decisive jerk. "You got nothing to worry where them boys are concerned. Them and their wives, they're safe."

He knew he had come to the right man. Gathering himself together, Brelan once more covered the hard fingers on his arm. "Will you help me get his friends and brother home?"

"You got a way to do that?"

"I've got the sea charts."

"You're a lot like him, ain't you, Lord Brelan? A lot like His Grace."

"The name's Brelan to my friends. Just Brelan." He offered his free hand to the captain.

Holm lowered his eyes to the proffered hand for only a fraction of a second. A frown marred the wide expanse of his face and Brelan thought he would refuse to help. When the man's pale eyes lifted to Brelan's, there was resolve on his weathered face.

"I'll be glad to call you friend, Brelan." He took Saur's hand and held it. "But I'll go to that hell-hole only on one condition."

"Name it!"

Holm tightly closed his strong fingers around Brelan's wrists. "That we bring his coffin home from that vile place. I don't sleep well knowing His Grace is buried in that hell-hole."

"You still think they took him there?"

"I spoke to a guard what saw that coffin off-loaded at the Labyrinth."

"I promise, Holm, if he's there, you can be assured we'll bring my brother home!"

It has been a year, he thought. No, his mind amended, it had been two, going on three, now, since he saw the first of them arrive.

He remembered feeling something akin to absolute joy in his battered soul, what soul he had left.

He didn't get to talk to them, had only looked at them for a brief, stolen moment before he had been lost once more to the brutality of his existence.

From the moment the first of them noticed him, he no longer felt quite so alone.

He had furtively watched them and had felt a great amount of sadness well up inside him.

When he had first arrived, he had been recognized with something bordering on sheer disbelief. He had felt a burning shame rip through him and turned away from them, hidden himself from their sight.

Now, he thought, as he looked out the window, here was another portion of his life that had come shambling back into the tangled web of his existence. There could be no joy with which to greet these particular men. Joy had forever been denied him. He had wished with all his heart never to see any of them again.

Not as he was now. Not as he had become.

Their look of horror would be even greater, for he realized he was so much worse off now than he had been four years before. At least back then, he somewhat resembled a human being; now, he was more animal.

Slumped at the window, he watched these new arrivals with the sad, hopeless look that was now a constant part of him. Their faces in the flare of the overhead torches were dear to him, loved, remembered, missed.

He had the opportunity, the rare, unsupervised occasion, to observe them without being seen, either by the men he was watching or the guards who wouldn't allow him the chance to do so if they knew he was trying. But for now, he feasted his hungry eyes on these men. He could look as much as he wanted before he was caught, and he intended to make the most of his good fortune.

A gruff clearing of the throat gained his attention. He turned, flinching with expectation. He glanced only for a split second at the man behind him, seeing he was alone with the Healer, and let out a relieved sigh. He nodded, knowing what was expected.

Wearily, he got to his feet and walked to the door, feeling a pitying gaze on his stooped form. It was a little difficult to turn the knob, but he managed. He looked nervously to the man in the room and he nodded in a quiet
thank you
, immediately lowering his gaze to the floor.

His footsteps were slow, shuffling as he left the building and headed for the place where he passed his solitary nights. He passed guards who ignored him, but then encountered one who held out an impatient hand to see the pass signed by the Healer. He extended it to the man, never daring to look into the guard's face, and waited, with head bent and eyes downcast, for the non-committal snort of acceptance of the pass' instructions before he was allowed to go.

He reached his bed and crawled into it, lying on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. He lay there for a moment, his mind and soul blank, and then his tired mind began to wonder.

He began to remember.

He didn't want to. But he couldn't help it.

It was a dangerous thing to do.

And it hurt. Sweet, merciful Alel, how it hurt! But it was something he couldn't stop from happening now and then, although his memories were fading, dissolving more rapidly with every passing day. The thought of his memories leaving him, alone and defenseless, was a torture far worse than anything mankind could create. After all, his memories were all they had left him. Everything else was long gone; and when even those precious islands of hope were gone, as well, he knew he would be beyond humanity and would drown in the misery of his existence.

Some of the memories had been pushed too deeply inside for him to dredge up. He tried to leave them where they were, but now and again, they resurfaced, bobbing up to remind him of what had once been, what would never be again.

Aye, he thought, with hungry pain eating through his soul, memories were the worst kind of torture, second only to unanswered questions.

Over the years, he had formed so many questions, needing the answers, longing to know, but not one word had ever been uttered in his hearing that would let him know if his worse fears had been realized. The questions hurt too much and he finally stopped asking himself for answers he knew he could not get.

Besides, the questions had killed a part of him, and he was afraid hearing the answers would finish the part that still lived, that drew breath after breath and refused to give up. One wrong answer might destroy him. Aye, he thought, memories faded, questions remained.

Not that it mattered anymore.

He huddled down into the ragged covers, for the night was black and still. It was late. There was no moon and he was thankful.

He tried to focus on a single beam of white light in his mind's eye, a trick he had been taught many years ago. Sleep would be a long time in coming, otherwise.

He sighed. His fingers hurt. Four were broken on his right hand. They ached, throbbed, inside the tight constriction of the bandage that hold them together.

Not that his injuries mattered. What were broken fingers, anyway?

Five years, he thought. More than five years since it all began. He tried not to think about that part of it, but it leapt across his mind, unraveling like an uncoiling serpent, and he watched the story unfold. He tried to stop the images from forming.

"Let me die," he pleaded, his hoarse voice unaccustomed to speech, for it was not allowed. He mumbled the same prayer he had whispered for years. "Merciful Alel, let me die in my sleep."

With his uninjured fingers gripping the tattered remnants of the bedding to his chest, Conar McGregor buried his face in the stench of the material and wept.