WINDHEALER (40 page)

"Little bird may learn to fly yet," the little man sighed as he ventured out into the rain.

* * *

He sat on the sand in front of the sixth cliff and crossed his legs. There was a dull gray sky overhead and the rain would surely come again by noontime. With any luck, they would be finished and inside by then. He sighed and tried to ignore the aches in his bones, the slight tingle in his fingers. He shifted uncomfortably on the wet sand and cursed the advances of age.

Turning in the direction of the palace, he frowned. His pupil was late. He, too, had been later than usual since he had to report on Conar's progress to Master Occultus. Young people had no sense of duty, no sense of honor in these times.

Something plopped down beside him. A small round pebble glistened on the wet sand. The teacher picked it up just as another glanced off his hand, and another bounced off his shoulder.

Though fully understanding, he clamped a tight control on his lips where a ghost of a smile threatened to steal over the wrinkled countenance. "Little shitbird well today?"

"I've got a cold," came the nasal reply, accompanied by a sneeze.

"What comes from playing in rain." He looked up to the sixth cliff where Conar sat, legs dangling over the side, arms crossed over his chest, a satisfied grin on his full lips.

"What now?" Conar called down.

"Little bird can safely say he has pleased his teacher. If he climb down, he will be taught how to fight Chrystallusian-style. Think little shitbird can be taught to fight this way?"

Conar laughed. "Do I have a choice?"

What passed for a smile on the teacher spread across his face. "Little shitbird should know by now he does not."

Conar started his climb down the cliff. As he reached the ground, he was surprised to see the man standing at the base of the cliff, his hand held out. Warily, he gripped the thin, delicate wrist.

"I am Ching-Ching. I have been waiting a long time to train you, Conar McGregor."

* * *

True to his word, Ching-Ching, warrior and advisor to the Emperor of Chrystallus and one of the three men Brelan had risked his own life to rescue from the horror of Tyber's Isle many years before, began to teach Conar to fight in the style of his ancestors.

It was a rigorous, grueling training, but it was deadlier than any other known form of self-defense. The spinning, flying kicks, the acrobatic maneuvers, tumbles, flips, were choreographed like the steps of an intricate dance. It was a fighting skill of great beauty and grace and yet painfully lethal. The weapons used in such fighting, pointed star-shaped throwing implements with razor-sharp cutting edges, long wooden staves with sharpened points, iron lengths of round pipe attached to heavy chain, were all instruments designed to maim and kill instantly and with little effort.

But also there were breathing exercises, meditations, exercises that seemed totally out of sync with the rest of the fighting skills, yet that firmed and controlled the muscles in ways ordinary exercise and muscle-building could not.

As Brelan and Roget joined Coron, Dyllon, and Wyn on the cliff that day, they watched as Conar strove to master the intricate steps and kicks, the utilization of the deadly weapons. It seemed that the things he was learning from Ching-Ching came faster and easier than a mortal man should be able to achieve. It was then that they began to suspect there was more involved than just the capabilities of a mere mortal.

There was magic at work. Magic of the most potent kind.

"Did you
see
that?" Roget whispered as Conar struck out in a vicious kick that decapitated a straw figure on the beach.

Brelan had heard of this particular form of fighting, but had never seen it employed. It was fascinating, and unnerving. "He'll be formidable by the time they're through. No one will be able to stand up against him."

"Isn't that the idea?" Coron asked with a sidelong glance.

Brelan was worried. He knew Conar's training was meant to be used in their war against the Domination, but the ease with which his brother used his new and deadly skills chilled him.

"He'll use these things wisely," Dyllon commented, "if that's what you're worried about."

"Aye, but sometimes anger makes a man do things he wouldn't ordinarily do. When he has abilities his opponents do not have, he might be tempted to do away with them altogether when only a beating would suffice."

Roget looked at his friend. "Conar wouldn't do that."

"There's so much anger in him." Brelan glanced at Roget. "And more anger to surface, and you know it."

"Do you blame him for being angry?" Dyllon asked. "After everything he's been through?"

"I don't think you have to worry about Conar," Roget put in. "He'll take that anger out on only those who have caused it."

"That's what I'm worried about," Brelan admitted gravely. "There are some who have caused him grief that he doesn't even know about as of yet."

Coron laid his hand on Brelan's shoulder. "You mean Legion and Liza?"

"I have tried a hundred times to talk to him about it, and a hundred times he's stopped me, which is just as well…since the knowledge of it just might kill what's left of his soul."

The men turned as Conar stormed into the weight room, cursing Ching-Ching, his horse, his family, his hut, his clothing and even his hair. There was a livid bruise on Conar's left cheek, a nasty-looking scrape on his chin, and dried blood under his nostrils. He withdrew his sword from its scabbard and hurled the sheath into a far corner. He faced the men, scanning them with blue eyes that held a malevolent challenge. When no one rose to the bait, he raised his lip.

"None of you old women feel like exercising?"

Shalu laughed. His amused look made Conar livid with rage.

With heavy, purposeful strides, Conar hovered over the seated man. He tossed his sword to his left hand and dipped the blade to the floor. "I'll even fight you with my left hand if you fear the right so much!"

Shalu merely grinned wider. He winked at Roget. "I hadn't noticed how dark his eyes had become, du Mer. Could it be he has enough fertilizer in his head that it's turned them dark?" He looked back at Conar. "Could that be it, Shit-for-brains?"

Conar's mouth twisted. "Is that why you're the color you are because you're full of shit?"

Shalu sighed as though being much put upon. He really didn't want to fight but the insolent child was asking for it. Never let it be said that Shalu Taborn, Necromanian King, was not accommodating. Slowly he uncoiled his massive frame and stood towering over Conar, stared into blue eyes now less belligerent and perhaps a tad wary.

"Baby birds shouldn't insult the eagles with whom they attempt to fly," another instructor commented from the weight bench. "They just might get their feathers plucked before they have time to molt. Is that what you want, baby bird?"

Conar was intensely sorry he'd started this. He could see everyone regarding him with wry humor. Unfortunately, his pride would not allow him to back down. He raised his chin. "Aye, that's what I want."

The moment he said it, he realized his stupidity. The laughter only served to increase his anger. Without any caution, he lunged at Shalu. Before he knew what had happened, he was flat on his belly, both arms behind him, Shalu's hard knee in the small of his back.

"Tweet-tweet, baby bird!" Shalu said. "Who'll be the first to pluck his feathers?"

"
No!"
Conar shouted.

By the time they were finished with him, he'd been stripped, slathered in oil, then, adding insult to injury, covered with talcum powder. If they could have found tar and feathers, no doubt he would have been covered in that. Leaving him with no clothes, robe, towel or loincloth, they laughed their way out of the room.

Conar sat huddled in the corner, fuming with humiliation.

"Come out, baby bird!" Chase taunted him from outside.

"We got some nice fat worms for you!" Rylan chimed in.

"We promise not to stare at your manly attributes!" Pearl giggled and the others howled.

Conar threw a hateful look at the open doorway. Just how the hell was he going to get out of there? He seethed with icy fury as he tried to drown out their mocking laughter and insulting catcalls. He grabbed a handful of hair on both sides of his head and screeched in frustration.

"A warrior must learn humility as well as ability," a gruff voice spoke.

He glowered at Ching-Ching, standing in the doorway, and felt like strangling him. The Chrystallusian seemed impervious to the hard look. "I don't need your goddamned philosophy!"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I think you learned a valuable lesson today, don't you, baby bird?"

"
Stop calling me that!"
Conar shouted.

"You prefer shitbird, instead?" Ching-Ching laughed and ignored Conar's vulgar response. "I have the right to call you whatever I wish. You call me the monkey man, do you not? Do you wish to fight me, as well?"

"No, thank you," Conar ground out from between tightly clenched teeth.

"I thought not." Ching-Ching sat on the floor beside Conar. "Whom do you wish to fight next? Du Mer? Saur? Brell? Each of them would be accommodating, I am sure."

"How come you're not speaking in broken Serenian like you always have before?"

Ching-Ching grinned. "Because I have no desire to do so. My speech pattern served its purpose with you. You thought me uneducated, unlearned, a country boy, eh? It was the way I thought best until I was ready for you to know otherwise. Now, when I speak to you, maybe you will listen. You have seen my harder side; now, view the gentler. I speak to you as I would my son, had I been blessed with one."

A derisive laugh came from Conar's lips. "I made a fool of myself, didn't I?"

"You do not fight your allies, fledgling. Save your anger for your enemies. You will have enough of them. You are restless. That is to be expected. Your men know this. They are restless, too. When Occultus decides you are ready, you will begin to take back all that has been stolen from you. Until that time comes…go slowly. There is time. And there is still much to learn."

"Like humility."

"And self-denial. You are descended from a long line of powerful men. Generations of WindWarriors course through your veins. You have inherited their natural abilities, but we have begun to enhance those abilities to the point where no mortal man will be your equal. It is up to you to do what must be done to satisfy your ancestors vengeance against the Domination.

"Learn to control your rage, fledgling. Learn to control it, or it will control you. Learn patience. Humility. These are things I am afraid you have never been taught. In the flick of an eye, a man can die from lack of direction. That man might not be you, but a comrade who depends on your ability to function with a clear head and calm nerves in a crisis."

"I thought I did fairly well in the Labyrinth at controlling my rage."

"The Labyrinth would have crushed a lesser man, Conar. The tortures that were practiced on you have only strengthened you, made you less vulnerable to physical and mental pain. Even your stay in that horrible place taught you a well-learned lesson. You can survive anything! Even the good-natured taunts and pranks your friends played on you today." Ching-Ching's monkey face split into wrinkled lines of humor. "It also taught you that you are not yet as invincible as you thought."

"It also taught me something else."

Ching-Ching inclined his head.

"When to know I am in a losing battle." Conar smiled, a smile touched with sadness. "I owe them an apology."

The wrinkled smile grew wider and the thin lips twitched. "A wise decision, baby bird!"

* * *

Apologizing to the men was as hard as Conar had anticipated. They joked and made stinging remarks about his anatomy as he made his way to the gym where they had stashed his clothing. He kept his temper under control, knowing they were doing everything they could to antagonize him, but realizing they were shielding him with their bodies from curious eyes as his ungracious, naked walk took him through their ranks.

He took their barbs with a tight smile and strode as calmly as he could into the gym, retrieved his clothing. His ears and face burned from the remarks as he stepped into his clothing and soiled it with the oil and talc.

In his room later, Conar flung off the clothing and plopped into the bath Se Huan had made ready for him. He had viewed her hastily concealed smile, heard the stifled giggle and knew everyone in the palace was privy to what had happened. He lowered himself into the tub and sulked, refusing to answer even her most innocuous questions, for he could see the wry humor in her face.

"He's like a sore-tailed cat, Se Huan." Jah-Ma-El came into the room carrying a tumbler of elixir Occultus demanded Conar drink each night.

The stuff was particularly vile, green and mossy, a potion to make him sleep soundly yet not develop any long-term desire for it. He had resisted drinking it at first. But after having his nostrils pinched shut by Jah-Ma-El, his body pinned to the bed by the others while Tyne poured the mess down his throat, he had learned to drink it of his own accord.

"He is not in the best of tempers, Lord Jah-Ma-El. I shall let him pout. Perhaps after he drinks his bedtime bottle he will be a good baby bird." Se Huan giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as a wet sponge hit her in the backside.

"Get out of here! Both of you! And take that shitty elixir with you!"

A wicked gleam entered Jah-Ma-El's eyes. "Se Huan, would you be so kind as to get Shalu and Roget and Sentian—"

"I'll drink it," Conar snarled.

"I thought you would." His brother handed him the tumbler, watching with uncontrolled mirth as Conar gagged on the liquid.

"Conar, you are such a baby!"

"You don't have to drink this shit! By the gods, it grows on my tongue before I can swallow it!" He grimaced, scrunching up his eyes to scrub at his tongue with his bath sponge.

Later, alone in his bathing chamber, Conar leaned back in the water. He wasn't angry at anyone. He wasn't even all that ticked off about having to drink the poisonous concoction.

A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth, then extended into a full-blown grin. He was a lucky man, he thought. He had brothers who loved and cared for him, friends who needed him and whom he needed, allies who had only his best interests at heart. He had more people looking out after him than anyone else he knew. In his uncle's palace, he was given everything they thought he could desire in the way of food, drink, comforts. They saw to his every need before he knew he had such a need. There was only one thing left that he desired and didn't have.

The smile vanished from his finely chiseled mouth. He stared off into space. He had almost forgotten what true desire was in the Labyrinth. His existence there was a living hell of brutal beatings and forced labor; there was no time for thoughts of creature comforts and desire. No opportunity for thoughts of a woman to give him comfort. Now, his thoughts flew across the broad mountain range that separated him from his homeland.

A fleeting worry tumbled through his mind. Why had no one pressed the issue of Liza with him? Why had no one forcibly sat him down and said, "It needs to be discussed"? Everyone seemed to want to talk to him about her, but no one actually knew how. And that made him wonder.

And it worried him.

Were things so bad, so irrevocable, that his brothers and friends were afraid to tell him? Did they suspect that the knowledge of the way things actually were in Serenia might hurt him?

He thought that might be the case. He knew she had formed an attachment to some man in Boreas. He suspected it might well be one of the knights from the court, but he had no way of knowing for sure. He didn't want to know.

Standing up, he plucked the towel from the stand and began to dry off, his eyes locked on the far wall. He had let Liza slip through his fingers like the hot sand of Tyber's Isle. Try as hard as he could, he couldn't remember exactly what she looked like. He had a vision of long, flowing black hair like Se Huan's, eyes the color of the jade in his aunt's crown, and the innocent, sensual smell of lavender; but that was all he could remember of the woman who had been his reason for living.

With the bitter taste of Occultus' elixir invading his senses, his mind began to dim, to release him from this world. He padded to his bed and curled up on the mattress, thoughts of the distant peaks of Serenia and the treasure they held growing more and more faint until they dissolved.

Sleep claimed him for a time.

* * *

Raja watched him from the corner of his room. She stood by the Cheval mirror, where, Webspinner that she was, she blended into her surroundings with the aid of magic. She squinted as she perceived his thoughts. A tight line of anger stretched her pouting lips.

She would take his mind from that bitch if it were the last thing she ever did!