WINDWEEPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  * * *

  All through the rest of that day and into the long night, every man, woman, and child old enough to do so, searched for Conar's daughter. A crescent moon rode high in the night sky while candles and torches lit the deep shadows in every nook and cranny within the keep, every hovel and inn in the village, every ship in the harbor.

  Bloodhounds brought in from the gamekeeper's cottage joined with those of Master Tucker's kennel of dogs, and the infant's blanket was given to the canines to sniff. The hounds were set loose on the vast grounds of the keep, its outbuildings, the wharves and the village, but their sensitive noses were unable to pick up a scent.

  No ransom note had been found; no demand had been made; no missive was sent claiming responsibility for the child's disappearance. Gezelle was questioned until, red-eyed and on the point of hysteria, Cayn, the court physician, ordered her to bed with a sedative. Sadie MacCorkingdale, the head cook of Boreas Keep and the last servant to see the babe before her disappearance, sat stony-faced and dry-eyed before her interrogators, her jaw clenched.

  "I know nothing of the little one's vanishing. I had no part in it!" she stated.

  Thom Loure, Captain of Conar's Elite Guard, brought his rubbery face close to the cook's. "No one says you did!"

  "Then get away from me, you big oaf! If there's one thing I surely wouldn't be a party to"—her gaze slid to where her nephew, Robbie, stood—"it would be the harming of an innocent babe!"

  Marsh Edan blanched as he stood listening, his face scrunched into a hard line of pain. "No harm's been done to the little one!"

  Each and every servant, guard, apprentice, village person who had had access to the keep was questioned at length until the Tribunal's Chief Interrogator was convinced he or she had no knowledge of the missing child's whereabouts.

  Sailors from the ships anchored in the harbor, including those of the Oceanian schooner, the Seachance, took small rowboats into the dark waters, praying fervently that no small body would be found floating. Pearl divers carried out their own grim search until the fading light made it impossible to see beneath the murky waters of Lake Myria and the North Boreal Sea.

  Legion, Teal, Wes, and Sentian each led a party of men in searching each quadrant of the surrounding countryside. Hern and his men confined their search to the keep's grounds, while King Gerren led his own personal guard, as well as the palace guard, through the village of Boreas.

  Storm Jale and Marsh Edan were assigned to watch and protect Liza, to keep her from going off on her own to search. Word was sent by carrier pigeon to the Oceanian capitol at Seadrift that the child was missing. Conar's Elite, led by Lin Dixon, combed the villages of Hul, Rhinea, Balt and Jost to the south and west of Boreas, going door to door, barn to barn, field to field, pond to pond.

  Liza stood on the battlements, kept there by Storm and Marsh on strict orders of her father-in-law and the pleas of her husband's brother, Legion. She paced the bridgework, watching the people scurrying about below. She waited, probing her own powers for the whereabouts of her daughter only to be stymied at every turn by a black, blank wall of fog. Her magic was of no use and she knew a terror so great, so impending, her nerves were worn thin wondering how that could be. She kept her silent vigil for hours, never opening her lips, heedless of the tears coursing down her cheeks. She kept her untiring watch, expecting the worst, hoping for the best.

  Eyes continually strayed to the lone figure who stood sentinel on the battlements. Her huddled form, wrapped in her great cape against the chill night air, gave more stamina to the already tired, more resolve to those just leaving to search. Her despondent, vigilant stance tugged at the heartstrings of those who glanced at her, but added more strength, more conviction in the quest.

  In the quiet confines of the Wind Temple, the priests entreated every known god and goddess in the Serenian and Oceanian pantheons. Runes were cast, chants that had not been toned for many years, filled the high-vaulted ceilings. Candles and incense lay along massive altars, lending their sharp fragrances to the already overpowering smell of hot, perspiring male bodies as the robed priests knelt, their eyes closed, their lips moving silently in pleading to Alel.

  Only those magi amongst the Brotherhood of the Domination lay dormant. Their keen eyes, their listening ears, watched and heard the frenzied efforts of their brothers-in-arms but they did nothing to help. Neither did they try to hinder the progress of the searchers.

  "We are neutral in this, Highness," Tolkan Coure, the Arch-Prelate informed the King when he came in hopes of gaining help. "The child has not been taken by one of ours. I believe you will find another's hand behind this dastardly deed."

  "Whose?" Gerren bellowed.

  Tolkan shrugged his thin shoulders beneath the bulky black silk of his robe. "Your son, perhaps? What better way to gain sympathy for his plight than to have the people feel pity for him?" The man's thin lips moved in a travesty of a smile. "I am sure you will find the girl safe and well when Conar has been once more installed as heir to your throne. I must say he planned this well."

  Gerren stared at the man, his lip curling with distaste. "Conar would do no such thing!"

  Tolkan bowed his head. "You know him better than I, Highness."

  Until that time, Conar had been searching inside the keep. With Sentian close behind, he had gone room to room, finding no trace of his daughter.

  As his father—who heard long before Sentian that the babe was missing—spoke with Tolkan inside the Wind Temple, Conar came up against the might of the Temple Guards who refused to allow him entry into the Temple. His shouts and curses brought both his father and Tolkan outside.

  "You may not enter!" the Chief Guard shouted at the young Prince.

  It took five men to subdue Conar. The Temple Guards wrestled him to the ground, forcing him to his knees, bearing him to the temple steps in front of Tolkan as the old man walked onto the portico behind the King.

  "You have lost the privilege of entering these hallowed halls, young man!" Tolkan told him coldly. "You have been decreed anathema by your King. Even as I speak you are being excommunicated from the WindWarrior Society. The Elders will post the edict within the hour."

  "And will you excommunicate me from the Brotherhood, too, Tolkan?" Conar shouted at the man. Struggling against the hands forcing him to kneel, Conar found he couldn't raise even the smallest amount of power against the men keeping him down and wondered why.

  "You are being excommunicated because of the threats you made against your King," Tolkan replied, casting a sidelong glance at Gerren, whose face was hard and set as he stared at his son. "Your allegiance to the Domination is not part of this."

  "So help me, Tolkan, I will make you and that slime, Tohre, rue the day you ever took out your venom out on my child!" Conar spat at the feet of the Prelate. "I don't give a damn what you do to me, but my child is innocent!"

  Gerren watched his son being kept on his knees in the gravel. Conar's arms were behind his back; two men kept heavy hands on his shoulders. The boy's face was red with fury, feral in the glare of torchlight lining the Temple steps. There was about him a violence his father had never seen and it was easy to believe this young man quite capable of patricide.

  "Papa, can't you see what they are doing?"

  Tolkan smiled, and the evil of that smile filled Conar's heart with icy dread. "Why should we vent our anger on an innocent babe, Conar? Your father knows our business is with you alone!"

  Conar flinched. He saw his father's lips twist with revulsion. The hard, chiseled face of the King was tight with disgust.

  "I swear to you, Coure," Conar whispered, "I will bring your black filth down around your ears!"

  Tolkan looked at King. "Do I have permission to deal with one of my brethren, Majesty?"

  A muscle jumped in the King's jaw; he ground his teeth together. He nodded stiffly and turned from Tolkan's horrible grin. "He is your responsibility, Coure. Not mine."

  "Papa!" Conar shouted, stung by his fat
her's words.

  Tolkan smiled triumphantly and he strode down the marble steps, coming to stand directly in front of Conar. Sweeping back his robe, he knelt on the last step, reached out a hand gnarled with advanced age, and took Conar's chin in his fist. He forced up the young man's head, although Conar tried to jerk his chin free of the vile touch.

  "I would be careful of what you say and do, Conar." He anchored Conar's face in his grip. "There is more at stake than you realize. There are others who could suffer grievously from your stupidity."

  Conar stilled instantly. "Are you threatening my family? Here, in front of your King?"

  The old man lifted one bony shoulder in disdain. "I am merely suggesting that your wife could be turned out on the streets along with her husband if you do not behave."

  "Elizabeth is safe from such action," Gerren spat, his voice tight with warning. "She has done nothing wrong."

  Tolkan looked up at the King. "True, but will the Tribunal see it that way?"

  Gerren's face lost its color. His furious stare swept to Conar. "See what you have set into motion? You are a blight on this family!"

  "If any man, my father included, tries to deny my wife or daughter the rights that are theirs, I will kill him myself!" Conar spat.

  A gasp ran through those assembled. The Arch Prelate's face had taken on an unholy light and his thin lips had stretched wide with victory.

  "A serious offense, Conar. You have threatened your father's life in front of witnesses. The Tribunal will not take kindly to such blatant disregard of the laws."

  "I don't give a damn what you call it or who heard!" Conar said through clenched teeth. "You have set him against me. You are the cause of all of this." His jaw ached from the pressure of Tolkan's bony fingers.

  "Turn him over to the Tribunal," the King ordered. "He deserves what he will get!" He started to walk away, but Conar's angry voice made him stop.

  "How many lashes will you require they lay to my flesh, Majesty?" Conar sneered. "Twenty? Thirty? Will that appease your sense of betrayal? Will the sight of my blood give you back the self-esteem you think you have lost?"

  Gerren's lids flickered; his breath caught in his throat. He could only stare at the man he had called his son. He didn't know this being who knelt in the darkened courtyard glaring with hatred. His words fell like stones to the ground.

  "I have washed my hands of you," Gerren grated. "The Tribunal will see justice done."

  "The Tribunal can go to hell!" Conar shouted.

  One of the men holding him had heard enough. He shoved a hard fist into the soft part of Conar's side, doubling him over.

  "No, Hebra," Tolkan cautioned, standing

  "But Holiness—"

  "He will be made to atone for his sins. Make no mistake. But now is not the time. First, the little girl must be found. Then we will deal with him." He turned to the King. "If I turn him in to the Tribunal, Majesty, they will jail him. Let him stay here in the courtyard; I will place guards to see he goes nowhere. The Princess is our main concern and the people will wonder greatly if he is not where they can see him."

  Conar stared at his father, unwilling to believe the man had disowned him.

  "Whatever you decide. It matters not at all to me."

  Tolkan bowed slightly as the King walked away. He smiled. "I think your troubles are coming to a head, don't you, Conar?"

  "Are we not to at least shackle him, Holiness?" Hebra asked, his gaze hateful as he glared at his prisoner.

  "No need. Make sure he does not enter the keep again. As soon as the babe is found, he will be made to do penance for his insolence." Tolkan's wintry smile slid slowly from his wrinkled face. "And when he does, I know he will regret ever having been born!" The old man laughed, his chuckle dry and shriveled like ancient parchment as he walked stiffly up the temple steps.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  It was now almost morning of the second day. To the east, a faint streak of light lit the black sky at the horizon. No word had reached the ears of those searching for the child. No cry of happiness or sadness had echoed across the silent courtyard where only a handful of men sat around a blazing campfire. On the battlements, torchlight still wavered in the breeze, lighting the Princess as she gazed toward the south. Her brothers had arrived at sunset the eve before, having ridden down from Virago where they were visiting the Hesar brothers. They now stood with her, waiting.

  Conar looked up from his place under one of the canopies and saw his father's horse, a bold roan stallion, prancing beside the lesser mounts of the King's Guard. He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and watched the guards speaking. He got to his feet, wondering what had happened.

  Walking heavily across the courtyard toward the stables, his heart thundered, for as he drew closer, several of the men looked toward him and began to dismount, their swords sliding effortlessly from their scabbards. He ground his teeth, but never broke his stride. Did they think he would really attack his own father? He saw the guard's second in command—a man he had known all his life—nod to one of the younger men, who stepped forward, blocking Conar's way.

  The Prince cursed beneath his breath at being denied entrance to the stables. He looked to the man in charge and asked if the King was inside.

  A haughty sneer lifted the guard's upper lip. "The King is questioning a stableboy who says he saw someone leaving the keep yestermorn with a wrapped bundle."

  Conar's heart lurched. He made to go around the man, but a sharp sword point brought him up short. He looked at the polished steel and then at the guard who held it. The young man was one of his own Elite. "Will you run me through, Matheny?"

  The man didn't answer, but instead put slight pressure on the blade as it rested on Conar's chest. His manner was uncompromising.

  Conar let out a wavering breath. "I guess you would."

  King Gerren came out of the stables, pulling on his brown leather gloves as he walked briskly toward his horse. He glanced briefly at his son, reached up for the pommel of his saddle, and put a foot in the stirrup. After swinging into the finely stitched saddle, he gathered the reins.

  "What did the boy say?" Conar asked.

  The King's back stiffened.

  "I have a right to know!" Conar felt the tip of Matheny's sword twist on his ribcage. Totally beyond rational thought, the Prince thrust aside the blade, drawing in his breath as the edge slid across his palm, slicing, a long, thin opening along the flesh. He knew the boy did it purposely.

  As Matheny sent him a silent plea for instruction, Gerren held up his hand. "No, Roy." He watched as Conar drew near. Looking at the son, he felt only mild pity. Then his resolve strengthened and he willed himself to sit still, emotionless, as Conar laid a hesitant hand on his knee.

  "Please, Papa."

  A long moment passed as he continued to stare at his son. The moistness in Conar's eyes turned to silent tears. Conar's chin faintly trembled, as he obviously tried to keep his face from crumbling. The boy's tears enraged the King, while the ravaged face set his teeth on edge.

  "Lloyd," the King said to the guard in charge. "Tell this man he has no rights here. Tell him he is dead to me and the dead have no need to know what the living do."

  It took Conar a second to digest what his father had said. His mouth opened, but the hurt and shame only allowed a whisper to come through. "You don't mean that, Papa." Conar put his other hand on his father's leg, heedless of his torn flesh or the blood dripping onto the King's trousers.

  "Tell him, Lloyd, that he is filth beneath my feet!"

  Kicking out one booted foot, he caught his son fully in the chest, sending Conar crashing to the ground. The King stared at the bloody handprint on his knee and a look of repugnance passed over his face. "And tell him, Lloyd, that I shall require forty lashes on his bared back!"

  "I am your son!" Conar screamed as the King and his guard cantered over the drawbridge. Tears coursed down his cheeks and he unthinkingly brushed them away, leaving bloody st
reaks across his face. "I am your son," he whispered.

  He looked at the stables where a guard stood, barring his way, and he let his head sag. Whatever the stableboy had to say would not be said to him.

  * * *

  Liza had witnessed the entire scene. Her heart nearly broke as she watched her husband pleading for knowledge of their child's whereabouts. She knew how much it must have cost him to humble himself to the man who had disowned him. A sob caught in her throat as Conar wearily dragged himself from the ground. She saw him look up at her, his face a twisted mask of shame. He slowly shook his head and turned to walk away.

  She wanted to call out to him, to dry the tears and smooth the worried lines on his brow, but she could do neither. Guards were posted at the doors of the keep to deny him entrance, and to keep them from each other.

  She watched him trudge to the guardhouse where he sat on the steps leading into the left turret. His shoulders drooped with fatigue and he hunched forward over his knees and buried his face in his hands. Liza braced her hands on the battlement's crenellation and tried to keep the quiver out of her voice as she spoke to Storm, standing a few feet away with Marsh Edan.

  "Will you see that my husband has food and drink? I know he's had nothing all day. It will be dawn soon. He has to be hungry and no one dares offer him anything."

  Storm and Marsh looked at one another. They had been ordered to stay with the Princess. Not only for her safety, but to keep Conar McGregor from reaching her.

  When the Elite did not answer her, Liza turned and fixed the two men with a look of pleading. Her tear-stained face and ashen cheeks said more than words.

  "I'll see to it, Your Grace," Storm told her, ducking his head in respect.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, she slowly let it out. Her lips formed a tiny smile. "Thank you, my friend. I am most grateful."

  * * *

  The kitchens were dark, still smoke-filled. Storm filled a platter with cold roast beef, cheese, and apples and poured a large tankard of buttermilk. He took a ragged chunk of sourdough bread from the bowl beside the ovens where it had been left to dry out for that day's stuffing. The crust was hard, crackly, but a quick poke with his finger assured the Elite the inside was soft enough to eat.