WindBeliever (12 page)

There were sixteen scallops on each side of each panel--five hundred and seventy-six scallops in all.

Each vine had twelve leaves--one hundred and eight leaves in all.

The chandelier had twelve arms with three candles per arm for a grand total of thirty-six fat white candles. There were eighteen links in the chain from which hung the chandelier.

“God!” he spat and pushed himself up from his chair. If he counted lilies and links and leaves one more time, he’d go stark, raving mad! Plowing his hand through his hair, he stomped to the cheval mirror beside the bathing room door and stared at his reflection. What he saw did not please him.

His hair had lightened somewhat over the past year. There were strands of gray reflecting in the light, but that was to be expected for he was, at least in his own mind, middle aged, now.

There were a few more lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes and two deeper grooves ran parentheses down his cheeks beside his mouth, but that was normal for a man his age and who had suffered as he had. His cleft appeared deeper, his lips less full. His eyes were still that alien, unnatural blue, but they were devoid of light, blank and infinitely bored. They were the eyes of a man who would be thirty-seven in two months and who had seen more grief than he should have.

But it was not those features he saw in the mirror which concerned him, he thought with a grimace of distaste. It was the twin gouges of dark pink flesh which streaked down the left side of his face from the corner of his eye to his earlobe.

“Ugly son-of-a-bitch!” he hissed as his image and turned away.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear an old conversation, taking place on a quiet hillside in the lush land of his Aunt’s people--Chrystallus.

“And what of the scars on your face?” Occultus Noire had asked him.

“Leave them,” he said. “I want a reminder of what was done to me.”

Now, many years later, he wished with all his heart that the scars had been erased along with those Occultus had taken away. His brother Galen’s initials had been carved into the back of his hand. Tolkan Coure’s twin symbols of ownership had been burned into the soft skin of his thigh.

The word ‘traitor’ had been tattooed into the flesh of his wrist. The marks left by Appolyon’s riding crop were across the bridge of his nose; the Seals of the Domination in his palms; the brand of treason on his shoulder blade and the ring of burnt flesh around his left elbow where Kahlil Toire’s ‘marriage band’ had become a part of his misery.

So many scars, he thought. So much pain. So much degradation. None of it deserved, but all of it meant to stay with him forever.

As would the scars on his face.

And

back.

A wry burst of self-contempt exploded from Conar’s clenched teeth as he wondered what Marie Catherine would say if she could see the mass of crisscrossed disfigurement on his back.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

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The ravages on that part of his anatomy made the scars on his cheek look like love taps. Many a grown man had turned away in horror at that sight.

“Why are you dwelling on this?” he asked himself aloud.

Flinging himself face down on the bed, he would have given a hundred gold pieces if Gezelle were there to rub his back. He’d give another hundred gold pieces if he had someone from home to talk to.

Idly, he though of having someone find Jordan Knowles, but he knew his need drove deeper than wanting to hear the sweet drawl of his homeland or to have someone from home be there to reminisce with him. He longed to have someone who knew him well to talk to, to comfort him, to understand the way he felt.

Groaning in frustration and loneliness, he flipped over, put his hands behind his head and glared up at the canopy above him.

There were forty-five chevrons of color--red, green, gold, and royal blue in the canopy.

There were twenty-two tassels along each of the two sides of the canopy and sixteen along each end.

Each tassel was ....

“Stop it!” he shouted, tearing his attention away from the canopy. His gaze fell on the carved bed posts and he groaned as the number of turnings along the columns invaded his consciousness.

He bounded from the bed, stalked to the armoire, flung back the door and grabbed his brown leather jacket. Thrusting his arms into the garment, he jerked his door open and rushed from his room, ignoring the startled look of a lady’s maid who was brought up short by his hasty departure from his room.

“If I don’t get out of this keep, I’m going to explode!” he hissed at the poor woman.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” the lady hastened to say as she bobbed a quick curtsy to him.

“Don’t call me that, woman!” he shrieked at her as he began his reckless descent of the stairs.

“What does he wish me to call him?” the surprised woman murmured as she watched his headlong rush down the stairs. Rolling her eyes to the heavens, she re-adjusted the bundle of clothing in her arms and started down the hall once more. “Royalty,” she sighed.

There was no one in the central hall except servants, most rushing about as though their rumps were on fire. No one spoke to him although a few cast semi-friendly grins in his direction.

One or two frowned at him as he got in their way, but didn’t speak to tell him he was being a blockade around whom they had to veer.

His annoyed tread carried him to the kitchens, which were deserted, to the library where the room was as quiet as a tomb, to the solarium where the Tzarina usually held her own brand of court at this time each day, but that room, as well, was vacant.

“Where the hell IS everybody?” he snarled, ducking his head into Peter Steffensburg’s office.

The room was empty.

Walking to the vast quadruple doors which led out to the garden, he could find no one sitting in the lush wonderland of flowers and shrubs. That in itself was odd, he thought with a growing sense of concern. At least one of the royal daughters could usually be found there with a book to her pert nose. The elegant garden was silent and somewhat cold without human inhabitants.

“May I be of help, Your Grace?”

Conar turned and found a butler watching him politely although there appeared to be a faint tremor about the man’s lips and a worried look in his lazy gray eyes.

“Where is everybody?” Conar asked.

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A startled look came over the man’s pinched face and he blushed, a faint wash of dull red color. “Did no one inform you of what’s happened, Highness?” The man brought his hands up to twist at his waist.

Grinding his teeth against the title, Conar shook his head. “No one’s bothered to tell me squat!” he answered in Serenian and was surprised when the tall, skinny man bowed elegantly and asked his apology.

“I am sorry, Your Grace. We have been so preoccupied since the fire began and we ....”

“What fire?” Conar cut him off.

“In the forests just above the Palace, milord. The wind is coming down from the mountains and it is vital that the fire be brought under control before it reaches the village. Most of the huts there have thatched roofs and they are a tenderbox ….”

“Is there someone who can show me the way to get there?” Conar asked, shrugging quickly out of his jacket. He tossed the heavy leather covering to the butler.

“One of the stable boys, Your Grace, but ....”

“Is the Tzar and his sons up there?” Conar interrupted the man as his long legs began to carry him past the lanky butler and into the central hall.

“Yes, Highness. They went to supervise the efforts.”

The butler shifted the weight of the unfamiliar garment to his left arm and followed quickly behind the young Serenian as that man made his way to the front door. “They would want you to remain here out of harm’s way, though. You are a guest, milord. You will not be expected to help ....”

“What’s the stableboy’s name?” Conar snarled.

“Sasha’s still here, I believe. All the rest have gone up to the fire. But, Highness ....”

It took him less than two minutes to find the boy named Sasha, less than that to have his palomino brought out of its stall. Ignoring the boy’s offer to find a saddle for the mount, Conar led the golden horse from the stable and out into the bright glare of the midmorning sun.

“Can I go with you, Your Grace?’ the lad asked, looking back at a little mare tied to a hitching rail.

“Only if you care to ride double with me,” came the short reply.

Grasping a handful of the stallion’s mane, Conar pulled himself atop the steed and then held his hand out for the boy to join him.

“Put your foot on mine and climb up, Sasha!” he commanded. “We don’t have all day for you to decide how to mount this beast!”

A frightened look entered the young boy’s eyes but he did as he was told, flinching as his weight pressed down on the Prince’s instep as he swung himself up behind the man. He barely had time to put his arms around the blond-haired man’s waist before the palomino was kicked into an all-out gallop away from the stables and through the bailey and out onto the public roadway.

He could smell the fire, now, Conar thought with a grimace of alarm. The air was thick with it and above the tall tree line beyond the Palace of the Tzars he could make out a thick black column of smoke. A dull red glow hovered near the base of those trees and he knew the fire was going to be a demon to stop.

“How far?” he yelled back, his words rushing past his passenger.

“Two, maybe three miles, Your Grace,” the lad answered. His cheek was pressed tightly to the tall man’s back and his lips were beginning to mumble the words of his nightly prayer.

“Hang on!” Conar yelled and kicked the horse up the roadway where he could see many WINDBELIEVER

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wagons had recently passed. How could he not have heard all the noise as people left the keep, he thought with a snarl?

“Because you were counting scallops,” came a contemptuous whine at the back of his brain.

They passed several water carts, heavily-laden, the oxen moving slow and cumbersomely up the steadily upward-slating roadway. Men with pickaxes and hoes, boys with axes and shovels, trudged along in a steady stream. Most glanced up at the blond rider and his clinging companion and were startled to see the young Serenian visitor.

“Where’s he going?” one man asked his son.

“Just what we need,” the son snapped. “One more aristocrat to supervise!”

But when he finally found the gathering point where men were being put to work to head off the now blazing conflagration, Conar swung his rider down, slid from his mount and headed for a tall, husky man who was obviously in charge.

“Show me where to go!”

The husky man turned around, frowned, and pointed a blunt finger to a makeshift tent about twenty yards away.

“The Tzar has set up his post in there.”

Conar jerked his head that way then flung the hair from his forehead. “Show me where to go to fight the fire, man. I don’t sit on my ass when there’s work to be done!”

A heavy black brow rose. “You know anything about real work, milord?”

Most men who knew Conar McGregor would have backed away from the deep growl of anger that came from the Serenian’s throat, but the man taking his measure didn’t know him, had never had the misfortune to run afoul of the infamous McGregor temper. But the narrowing of those sapphire eyes and the clench of that strong jaw should have warned the man that he had gravely insulted the man standing before him.

“You ask me that after we get this fire under control, you motherless prick, and I might even answer you then!” Conar snapped as he pushed a rigid finger into the man’s chest. “Now tell me where to go to help!”

Dark brown eyes raked down the white silk shirt and spotless cords and then settled on the furious face glaring back at them. The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“They need help over there,” he growled. “Get yourself an ax and ....”

“I know what to do,” Conar hissed.

Alexi Romanovitch followed the Serenian’s angry stride into the tree line and then shrugged.

What was one less arrogant aristocrat should the men there at the worse part of the fire fail to finish the fire break and were trapped. None of the firefighters would risk their lives or limbs to pull a member of the royalty out of harm’s way.

“He’ll scorch them lily-white hands of his,” one of the village men scoffed as he turned his head to spit out a thick stream of tobacco juice. “He’ll be more in the way than a help, Alexi.”

Once more the husky Outer Kingdom warrior shrugged. “I give him ten minutes before he’s over there in the tent with the rest of them,” Alexi prophesied.

Another stream of tobacco juice arched into the dirt. “And that’s the God’s truth!”

Marie Catherine Steffensburg looked up from her place at the edge of the crowd where she was expertly bandaging a village boy’s arm and stared at Conar McGregor as he hurried past.

She blinked in surprise.

“Isn’t that the Prince from the Outland?” the lad she was bandaging asked her. The lad had been caught beneath a falling tree and his arm was badly scraped. Her mother was helping to care for the boy’s father who had tried to rescue his son only to find his ankle caught in one of WINDBELIEVER

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the illegal animal traps that some foolish trapper had set. Two of her sisters were giving water to the firefighters while a third was helping cook to prepare a quick lunch for the men.

“Women’s work,” her father called it. “The village folk expect it.”

Even if they hadn’t, Catherine knew, she’d have been there to help. It was her nature her do so.

“Yes,” she answered her patient. “His name is Prince Conar.”

“Is he really going to help fight the fire?” the boy asked in wonder.

Catherine lifted one disdain shoulder. “Until he gets close enough to the flame to get his brow sweaty.” She looked in the direction in which Conar McGregor had disappeared and frowned. “The man will only be in the way.”