WINDKEEPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  His long legs were encased in russet breeches of soft leather. They molded his legs and rump as though he had been poured into them. Soft boots of dark brown kid made only a whisper of sound as Conar walked across the highly polished marble floor. His tunic was a pale yellow silk, opened to his waist and belted with a cincture of intricately twined gold links. Around the hem of the tunic, stitched in bright copper thread, was the runic lettering symbolizing the Four Ways To Happiness.

  The writings spelled out the four things Conar would need to be a good husband to his wife: Fidelity, Prosperity, Good Health and Wisdom. Circling each of the long, billowing sleeves was the writing of the Two Ways of Immortality: Fertility and Fecundity. The silken, crystal bead-tipped laces of his shirt had been left untied and hung down, their ends swaying gently against his chest as he moved.

  Around each of his wrists were heavy gold bands that kept his cuffs in place. One hammered band was engraved with the name of his father, the other with his mother’s maiden name. A single thin loop of finely-wrought gold rested in his left earlobe and, around his neck, partly hidden by the tunic, was the medal of the Wind Warrior Society. His golden hair was banded with the crystal circlet of the Prince Regent.

  The gong sounded again, a warning, signaling Conar enter the Chancel or have guards come get him. Legion squeezed his brother’s shoulder. "The Wind be at your back, little brother," he said, a catch in his voice.

  Conar didn’t answer. He nodded and reached up his right hand to cover Legion’s. His attention was on his father as King Gerren began his walk from the Chancel to the Altar where High Priest Kaileel Tohre waited.

  Conar took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "The gods help me," he whispered and then he walked into the Temple.

  * * *

  Legion had to make himself stand still. He wanted desperately to run, to hide. He didn’t want to be a witness to his brother’s unhappiness. His heart ached and tears threatened to come. He braced his feet wide apart and clutched his hands behind his back. He bit his lip to keep from shouting at Conar to come back, to leave, and to forsake this travesty.

  He knew he wouldn’t.

  He knew he couldn’t.

  Teal was in the fourth section of wedding guests and he felt his face twisting with emotion as he caught sight of Conar’s. There was such blatant misery on that handsome young face, such agony; it was a wonder the man could even walk. Teal had never seen Conar looking so unsure of himself, so terribly defeated, so vulnerable.

  The gods protect you, my friend, Teal thought. The gods protect you.

  Gezelle stood just inside the Sacristy doorway. Behind her, the servant girl, Liza, was attending to the Princess Anya’s wedding train. She could hear the soft words of encouragement from the Princess’ mother, the stern advice from her father. She winced as the Princess laughed nervously.

  "Oh, my sweet Milord," Gezelle said as she saw Conar step to the altar. "I am so sorry. So very, very sorry."

  From his place in the first tier of seats, Galen folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. How awful you look, big brother, he thought. You look as though these are your final hours on earth! He exchanged a smile with Kaileel Tohre.

  Coron and Dyllon exchanged looks, as well, over the heads of their lady-wives. Both men frowned. It was only too obvious to them that Conar was on the verge of collapse and that it wouldn’t take much to push him right over the edge. Never had they seen their big brother so nervous and rigid.

  Hern snorted, his anger filling the last row of seats as though they were empty of the valued warriors and servants who had been asked to attend. He shot a hateful look to Healer Cayn and saw the man shrug.

  "There is nothing you can do, Arbra," Cayn warned.

  "Don’t be so gods-be-damned sure!" Hern spat. He thrust his chin toward Conar. "Just look at that face, Cayn! Look what they’re doing to the brat! I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. It ain’t necessary!" His wizened countenance hardened. "It could have been avoided."

  Storm, Thom, and Marsh sat nervously on the edges of their chairs beneath the balcony where Conar’s children were sitting as quietly as any children ever had.

  Marsh let out a harsh sigh. "I don’t like the way he looks."

  "Aye, he looks terrible," Storm exclaimed.

  "You would, too," Thom snarled, "if you was marrying a frog!"

  Kaileel Tohre smiled. How miserable the boy looks, he thought with glee. Handsome as he was in the wedding shirt that had been worn by generations of McGregor men, Conar looked pale beneath the tanned planes of his face. The trembling hand Conar put to his right eye signaled a bad headache and there was a pinched look to his face that said he was no doubt nauseous, too.

  Tohre looked to a servant in the back row and nodded slightly. Adding just the right amount of tenerse to the boy’s morning ale had brought on the pallor the nervousness he was exhibiting. Another sip when the wine was given to him during the ceremony would push him further under the drug’s strong influence and make him feel the anger he was beginning to feel even more.

  King Gerren closely watched his son as they walked to face each other at the altar. He could see paleness that shouldn’t be there. There was a glazed look about the boy that meant Conar was having another of his bad headaches and that did not bode well for the night festivities. The nervous way Conar licked his full lips told his father that Conar was on the very edge of turning tail and running. Conar’s blue eyes skidded toward the exits, skipped back to his father, and then away again.

  No, you don’t, Gerren thought, willing his son to look at him. Don’t even think about it, Conar. Nothing would stop the Joining from taking place, Gerren vowed silently. Conar had a duty and honor to the royal house of Oceania, not to mention an obligation to his own royal parentage. If it came down it, Conar would be forced to go through the wedding at sword point.

  Conar kept his gaze straight ahead, ignoring the men and women of the nobility who had come from as far away as Chrystallus to be witnesses to his mating with Princess Anya of Oceania. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears and, with it, the godawful pressure on his skull the headache was causing. The vision in his right eye was blurring, doubling objects as he tried to concentrate. He looked from one doorway to another, trying to focus properly, but his wavering sight made him ill, so he settled his gaze on his father’s face. He was deeply afraid that if he looked up at Kaileel Tohre he would bolt and run like a wounded stag.

  Other than the slight trembling in his hands, he prayed he gave no other outward sign of the agitation that flowed through him like molten lava. He willed himself to stand still, not to fidget, and to pay attention to what was going on around him, although his brain had seemed to shut down the moment he walked into this vile place.

  As the Wedding Gong was struck for the seventh time, signaling the procession of the bride’s and groom’s mothers to the altar, Kaileel could not stop the giggle of malice that came as Conar cringed.

  Conar heard the snicker, but he didn’t look at the priest. He glanced to the doorway beyond his father where his father’s only sister, the Empress Dyreil of Chrystallus, was being escorted into the Temple by Coron. So nervous and detached from his surroundings, he had not even seen his two younger brothers get up to offer themselves as escorts to Queen Medea and their aunt.

  Since his own mother was dead, his aunt would be surrogate mother to him for the Joining. Conar managed a weak smile for her as Coron walked her forward and then took her hand from his forearm and placed it on the forearm of their father.

  Behind him, Conar could hear the soft rustling of silk and knew Dyllon would be escorting the Queen of Oceania to her place at the altar. As she moved past him, Conar was struck anew by the woman’s loveliness. When she looked his way, he cringed at the pain that lovely face caused him.

  Since his aunt had only arrived in the middle of the afternoon while Conar was going through the lengthy processes in the Temple, Conar had not spoken to her.
In fact, he had not spoken with her for over six years, and even though he was her favorite nephew, she was not privy to his reluctance, nor had she been advised of his reasons for that reluctance, to marry the Princess Anya.

  Looking at him now, her troubled blue gaze shifted over his nervous face and she pursed her lips tightly together.

  So that was the way of it, Dyreil mused. The boy isn’t happy about this. No doubt there was either another girl or there was something wrong with the one he was being forced to marry. She looked up to her brother and saw him frown at her with warning. Tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder, the lady dug her sharp nails into her brother’s arm, letting him know just what she thought of this situation. She felt him flinch and knew a moment of supreme satisfaction.

  "Damn it, Dy," he gasped. "That hurt!"

  "Tough!"

  Dyllon and Coron looked at one another and smiled. They recognized that look on their aunt’s face. She might be only four feet and seven inches in height, weigh only eighty pounds, and possess a face that looked as though she had not a mean bone in her body. But Dyreil McGregor Shimota was a force to be reckoned with when she was mad. And at the moment, she looked more than mad. She looked fit to be tied.

  Gerren felt his sister’s nails gouging into his flesh again and looked at her with alarm. She sent him a merciless smile full of pure venom and he groaned. By the gods but the bitch was going to skewer him, yet. He flinched as the nails dug deeper.

  Teal saw that look pass between brother and sister and grinned. Conar had a champion in the Empress Dyreil, and his father would be severely chastised for what her beloved Conar was being forced to endure. To keep from laughing as the King shifted nervously from one foot to another, Teal stared ahead of him to the altar stone.

  Queen Medea touched one graceful hand to her shining black hair and saw Conar look her way. He caught her watching him and hastily turned, but not before she had seen the sheer terror ravaging his handsome face. You poor boy, she thought. The young man did not know what was coming. Had no idea what it was that he must endure. Her heart went out to him and she looked away from the hopelessness on that face.

  When the clatter of silver bells rang out over the Temple, Medea heard the groan that had come from her son-in-law’s lips.

  Gerren saw Conar stiffen as the bells chimed. He looked into his son’s face and was not encouraged by what he saw there. There was hot resentment registering and, beneath the long lashes, his father caught the fleeting flash of panic.

  Conar’s lips were pressed tightly together in a thin, white line. He clenched his teeth so hard a muscle began to jump in his taut cheek. His hands had fisted at the exact moment the silver bells rang out and the knuckles were beginning to turn white from the pressure.

  There was a rigidity to his posture that had not been there a moment before. His back was ramrod straight, his shoulders squared, his chin raised, but the color had drained from his face. He didn’t seem to notice how terrible his appearance was to the rest of the wedding party standing with him between the four-foot-high altar rail of carved ebony wood and the black hemitite altar.

  King Gerren cleared his throat and gained his son’s immediate attention. There was no word for the degree of stubbornness stamped on Conar’s face and Gerren had a real fear that the defiance glowing in Conar’s eyes would flare into total rebellion.

  "Behave, son," he whispered and saw a muscle in his son’s cheek throb.

  "Get it over with," Legion mumbled from his place in the Chancel. He could only see Conar’s back from where he was standing, but he didn’t need to see his brother’s face to know how tense the man was.

  Tohre fixed his Prince with a sweet smile of revenge, his thin lips slowly moving back over yellowed, fang-like teeth. "It is now the designated Hour of Joining," Tohre called, watching Conar’s face. He raised his hands above his head, spread them wide, and turned his palms outward to those assembled.

  The guests rose and stood silently.

  "Who comes to seek the blessing of Alel on this ritual?" Kaileel Tohre looked more than pleased with the crowd’s unwavering attention.

  King Gerren took a deep breath and stepped directly in front of the altar. He bowed slightly to Tohre. "I, King Gerren McGregor of Serenia, have come to seek the Great God’s blessing."

  Kaileel looked down at his King from his place behind the altar. "And why have you come, King Gerren McGregor of Serenia?" He could barely wait to hear the words.

  "I have come to ask the Blessing of Joining for my eldest son, Conar Aleksandro McGregor, Prince Regent of Serenia." Gerren glanced at Conar as his son exhaled a long, hard rush of breath.

  "Has this man a mother to ask for the Blessing of Mating for her son?"

  Empress Dyreil hesitated for only a fraction of a second before going to stand in front of the altar, curtsying to the god Clere. Her bearing and her own unique brand of honor would not let her interfere with what was being done so cruelly to her beloved nephew, for she had been taught since early childhood where her duties to the McGregor men, and later, her husband, lay.

  "I, Empress Dyreil Shimota of Chrystallus, have come as surrogate mother to ask the Great God’s blessing on my son, Conar’s, mating," she said, her eyes boring into Tohre’s with extreme dislike.

  "And can you, Empress Dyreil Shimota of Chrystallus, vouch for your son that he is worthy to take unto him a bride for this Joining?"

  "I can," she said, her gaze on the High Priest.

  Kaileel sneered. "Then take your place beside your son."

  Dyreil took her place behind Conar.

  Tohre brought his pale blue stare to his King. "And can you, King Gerren of Serenia, vouch for your son that he is free to Join, unencumbered by a previous marriage?"

  "I can."

  "Then I declare him fit for Joining. Go to your son, King Gerren."

  Gerren walked to Conar’s side. He could almost smell the fear rolling off Conar. He could hear the ragged, shallow breaths of nervous anticipation his child was making as he stood beside his father. He saw the fingers of the young man’s right hand twitching.

  It was not a good sign.

  Conar glanced up at the High Priest, holding the fierce gaze directed toward him, and kept himself from wincing as Tohre’s loud words rang through the Temple.

  "Since I have tested this man and found him worthy of Joining, and since he is free to take unto himself a bride, I now declare the Joining may begin!" His voice turned lethal. "Let the bride come to her groom!"

  Crystal bells tinkled and Conar tensed, his spine ramrod straight. It was time! In only a few moments, the woman he would be chained to for the rest of his wretched life would walk down the ermine pathway and wreck his life forever.

  He heard the "oohs" and "aahs" of the assembled guests. Heard his aunt’s sharp intake of breath. Heard his father’s low whistle of either shock or admiration—he couldn’t tell which—and thought he just might let fly with part, if not all, of the ale he had downed before going to the Temple this afternoon.

  He jumped as his father nudged him with a not-so-gentle elbow and he looked up. When he did, he found himself staring straight into the intent face of Queen Medea.

  There was no smile on her lovely face now. A mysterious light lit up her green eyes, eyes so like his beloved Liza’s; and with a jolt, he realized the woman pitied him. It was written on that lovely face and he felt like groaning. He looked away and found himself staring into Kaileel’s smug face.

  That was no better. The only other option he had was to look down the pathway to his left.

  He took a deep breath and slowly turned his head, mustering up all the courage he could find to look at the woman who was now only a few feet away from him.

  No one was looking at Conar’s face. They were looking at his bride. No one saw the look of shock on his face when he beheld his bride.

  He blinked, blinked again, and let his vision travel slowly from the top of her veiled head to the sparkle of jeweled
slippers on her feet and back up again.

  He heard Dyllon’s voice clearly from his place in the first row of seats, "My god, Coron! Look at her!"

  Although the woman’s face was hidden beneath the thick silver net, the rest of her in her wedding gown was in plain sight. Her ample curves in the truly priceless gown were lush and soft, her waist so tiny Conar knew he could span it with his hands. Her legs were long, and although she limped slightly beside her father as he escorted her to the altar, her feet did not appear to be misshapen in any way.

  Her slender arms were bare except for the tiny puff of silver lace sleeves on her shoulders. Her neck was swan-like, arched and slim, her shoulders smooth and creamy-looking. The bosom that thrust from the gown’s low scalloped neckline had ample cleavage with which to garner a man’s attention. There was no trace of her hair showing, but her coloring was warm and honey-tinted like her mother’s.

  His father had been right, Conar agreed begrudgingly. She was trim and she carried herself well despite the faint limp. Even if she was hideously deformed beneath the safety of that gods-be-damned veil, the rest of her wouldn’t be so bad to mount. He snorted and felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing none too gently.

  King Shaz reached the altar rail, stepped up the three steps, held out his hand for his daughter to join him, and then escorted her the few feet forward to her husband. The King’s beatific smile was glorious to behold.

  Seeing that smile and the faint exchange of looks between the King and Queen of Oceania, Conar couldn’t help but groan beneath his breath. As well he might grin like a jackanapes, Conar thought viciously. The King was getting rid of the bitchlet! Conar looked back at the girl, now only two feet away from him.

  Her wedding dress had been a gift to her from the people of her homeland. Lovingly sewn by over a hundred ladies from all over the country, the gown had traveled from town to town with as many as three hundred pairs of hands fashioning the adornments, lace, netting, undergarments, and slippers. The worth of the gown left no doubt in anyone’s mind why the dress had made its journey with dozens of guards in attendance.