WINDKEEPER Read online

  All amusement left the young man’s face and his eyes took on the hard glint of steel. "Mercy such as you were about to show me?" He shrugged indifferently. "Don’t worry. I won’t slit your dirty throat."

  "You ain’t gonna kill me, Milord?" The thief breathed a too-hasty sigh of relief as the youth shook his head.

  "Why should I?" came the terse reply. "I’ll let the Tribunal see to you." He folded his arms across his broad chest. "I hear the Labyrinth is nice this time of year."

  Fear blazed across the man’s face and he jerked in horror. "Kill me, Sir!" he pleaded, his free hand going up in submission. "I’d rather die than go to Tyber’s Isle!"

  Stooping over his captive, the young man grinned. "Do you know who I am?" he asked pleasantly. He hunkered beside the man. "Have you any idea at all?"

  The thief vigorously shook his head. "No, Milord," he said, his voice breaking.

  "Well, I think I should tell you," the lad said with weariness. He leaned over and put his lips to the thief’s ear.

  As the name registered in the bowlegged man’s befuddled brain, he blanched white as freshly fallen snow and moaned in despair. There was no doubt in his mind the lad was telling the truth. He looked away and shuddered. "The gods have mercy," he whispered.

  "They might. I won’t," the lad said with a harsh snort. "And now you know why you’ll spend the remainder of your life in the Labyrinth," the youth told his captive and then stood, his eyes going to the opened doorway where there was sudden movement. He frowned. "It took you long enough."

  One of the two men who came hurrying through the doorway wore the livery of a military captain. The medallion of his rank was pinned to his wide chest. He was tall, over seven feet in height, with a shock of gleaming, bright red stubble on his oversized skull. His forehead sloped dramatically downward over small black eyes and his mouth was large with rubbery lips that were set in a prim line of worry. His big hands gripped a broadsword that required both hands to wield. "Are you all right?"

  With a shrug of disdain, the young man looked down his nose at the Captain of the Guard, not an easy thing to accomplish since he had to crane his neck backwards to do so. "Why wouldn’t I be?" The blond youth snickered.

  The captain let out a ragged breath and shook his massive head, glancing over at his companion, a man wearing the livery of a lieutenant. A look passed between them and both turned their attention back to the youth. "Me and Edan were worried about you," the captain said, closing his eyes in thanksgiving and relief that his charge was in one piece.

  "There was, of course, no need," the young man said haughtily, sniffing at the tall man’s concern. He pretended to dust an imaginary particle of lint from his torn sleeve. "I am quite capable of defending myself."

  The second guard chuckled. "Didn’t I tell you what he’d say?"

  A heavy sigh of hopelessness gushed from the Captain of the Guard. He shook his head. "One of these days…" His rubbery face turned crimson with anger. "If you persist in going off on these forays by yourself, you’re gonna come up against the one man you can’t best!"

  A disdainful lift of the young man’s shoulders was his answer to the dire prediction.

  "Oh, the demons take you!" the captain spat and bent over the bowlegged thief. "What’s to be done with this one?" He gave the dead innkeeper a cursory glance then pointed to the unconscious thief. "Is that one dead, too?"

  "Nope. Take them back to Boreas with you."

  The captain turned his head and looked at the youth. "Aren’t you coming?"

  "Yes."

  Another sigh as he and the other guard unpinned the thief’s wrist, ignoring the man’s shriek of pain. "Any time soon?"

  Another shrug. "Maybe."

  "Will you be riding with us?" the captain asked as he helped to support the thief’s limp weight.

  "I’ll catch up with you."

  One more sigh at the futility of dealing with this boy and the captain dragged the thief out of the stable, casting a hopeless look at the young man as he went. "You will be careful?"

  There was a cluck of the youth’s tongue. "Aren’t I always?"

  "Oh, of course, you are!" the captain mocked. He pushed the bowlegged thief ahead of him and shouted at his fellow guard. "Truss up this bastard like a feast goose!"

  The youth walked to the opened stable doorway and watched the guards leading the thief to a group of horsemen milling around outside the tavern’s entrance, and grinned. Rayle Loure, the Captain of the Elite Guard, had brought ten men. When would the man learn that he was fully able to take care of himself? He shook his head and then looked up. "You all right up there?" he asked, leaning against the upright nearest the ladder.

  "Uh, huh."

  "Well, then, I think I’ve made it safe enough for you to come down." The young man laughed, then frowned fiercely as a loud snort came from the loft. His ego stung at the reminder that he had not been the one to save the day. He pushed away from the beam, his mouth set in a mulish line. "You coming down?"

  "Aye." Straw rustled in the loft and a few loose shards fell through the gaps in the wooden planks overhead.

  "Any time soon?" he mimicked in imitation of his captain’s question.

  "In my own good time." The voice that had spoken was youthful, indeed: not more than thirteen, fourteen, at most.

  The young man was annoyed that the child in the loft, a stable boy, no doubt, had come to his aid. With the supreme arrogance of youth and masculinity, he thought he could have handled the threat of the pitchfork by himself if he had been given time to rationalize the outcome of his next action. That he had had no sense, and was at the mercy of the innkeeper, had somehow managed to slip his mind. He smirked, rather than smiled, at the thought of a mere stable boy coming to his defense, but then his frown tightened to speculation when he glanced at the dead innkeeper. No ordinary stable boy was this.

  He shrugged. A stable boy that could throw a dagger and use a crossbow was worth talking to, he supposed. "You’d make a fine soldier-apprentice," he said begrudgingly.

  A light guffaw of laughter came from the loft, followed by the sound of boots crunching straws.

  The nicker of a strange horse broke through the youth’s moody self-absorption and he stepped over to a stall at the end of the stable. A small gray horse stuck its velvety nose out to him, a soft snort of welcome coming from its nostrils as he put out his hand. He spoke over his shoulder.

  "Does this mare belong to the innkeeper?" He put his hand on the sleek gray nose and patted the beautiful mare. She nuzzled the palm of his hand and laughed. "If she does, I claim her. She’s a beauty."

  "Mine," was the offhanded remark as the ladder to the loft squeaked.

  "Yours?" The young man’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Not a stable boy, then; a guest at the inn, perhaps. He nodded his head in understanding. The young one was more than likely a boy traveling with his parents or a nobleman’s son on holiday. He nodded emphatically. That made sense. It would explain how the boy knew weapons such as the ones he had used. Sixteen seemed about the right age for a boy out traveling alone in this day and age.

  A booted foot crunched dirt beneath it as the sentinel dropped from the last two rungs of the ladder to land on the stable floor.

  "She’s a fine one," the youth said, referring to the mare who was pushing her velvety head under his arm in immediate affection. He kissed her smooth muzzle. "What’s her name?"

  "Windkeeper."

  The young man tightly compressed his lips to keep from laughing at the rather elegant name. He silently mouthed the regal name to himself and shook his head, his eyes twinkling with mirth. Out of respect for the ego of youth, he managed to keep the laughter from his voice as he asked his next question. "An unusual name, don’t you think?"

  "Maybe," was the short, miffed reply.

  "Is she fast?"

  "As fast as the wind, Milord, and twice as loyal. She can outrun any mare you put up against her."

  The blond youth’s back
stiffened. There had been something in the speech pattern, the tone, and the inflection that didn’t ring right. Turning slowly to face his companion, his brows shot up in shock. "You’re a gods-be-damned girl!"

  "It would appear so, Milord." A wicked grin spread across the girl’s face and bright green eyes lit with humor. "I kinda like it that way. How ’bout you?"

  "You’re alone?" His eyes went to the loft in hope of seeing the male who had, without a doubt, wielded the weapons with such precision.

  "Quite alone." She propped the wicked-looking crossbow she had wielded with such ease against the wall and laid the bag of quarrels beside it. With barely a look at the dead innkeeper, she went to him, pulled her dagger from his chest and wiped the blade on the man’s dirty apron.

  With a growl of disbelief, the youth ran his sword hand through his thick gold hair. "By the gods, girl. If I had known…"

  Grinning broadly at his look of exasperation, the girl covered the short distance between them and unlatched the gate of her mare’s stall, leading the pretty little horse into the stable proper. "I’d say things turned out all right, even if I am a girl, Milord." She laughed.

  He stammered, his mouth opening and closing as the girl hoisted the mare’s saddle from the low partition between his horse’s stall and her mare’s. He was so stunned by her attitude and obvious experience with weapons, he stood gaping as she swung the saddle onto the mare’s delicate back.

  The snit was a girl, he thought with alarm. And a little girl at that! She could be no more than thirteen! His mouth snapped shut and he reached out to shove her, none too gently, away from the mare’s cinch as she had bent over to tighten it. "Let me!"

  With a suddenness that made him draw in his breath, he felt the tip of something sharp lodged against his flesh just behind and below his right earlobe. He stilled immediately, instinctively realizing the sharpness came from the dagger she now held to his throat. His blue eyes blazed with fury and his lips clamped tightly together over grinding teeth. The bitchlet could be an assassin—another of the robbers’ cohorts—and he had walked right into her trap! His mind went to the dead innkeeper and he had to force himself not to groan.

  "As you can see, Milord," she told him in a light voice, "I need no help. I thank you for your offer, but I must decline. No one saddles my mare except me. She won’t allow it." Noticing the pallor bleaching his deep tan, she felt a wave of remorse sweep through her. She gently placed her free hand on the hard, tense muscles of his rigid back. "You have nothing to fear from me, Milord. I think I’ve proven that rather adequately." She patted his back as though he were a precocious child.

  Letting out a breath he didn’t even know he held, his eyes slid sideways to hers. He stared into the frank green depths, locking his gaze with hers, and knew she meant what she said. The blade’s pressure eased from his flesh. He could have strangled her, until her lips quivered with amusement before she broke eye contact.

  "You should be more careful, Milord." She slid the blade into the sheath at her thigh. "You have to watch your back at every turn this day and age."

  His demeanor turned dark with fury at her cavalier attitude. "Do you know who the gods-be-damned hell I am?"

  "Does it matter?" she asked as she adjusted the saddle on her mare. She put her hand on the young man’s arm and gently pushed him aside, stepping around him. She bent over the dead innkeeper and withdrew her other dagger, wiping the man’s blood on his apron before sheathing the dagger in the top of her right boot. She stood and took her mare’s bridle from a peg.

  He watched her every move as she hooked the bridle over the mare’s head and buckled it. He said nothing until she began to lead the mare out of the stable.

  "Wait!" he shouted. He covered the distance between them, put out his hand to touch her again, to force her to stop, but brought back his hand. He wasn’t so sure touching her was wise. "There’s safety in numbers," he said in a voice he knew wasn’t at all normal.

  "Do you wish me to travel with you to the capitol, Milord?"

  "How’d you know I was going to the capitol?"

  "Where else would you be going?"

  Conar’s hands itched to throttle her. Instead, he pointed a finger and snapped, "You wait there!" Spinning on his heel, he stomped back into the stable and saddled his horse with one eye cocked on the girl standing demurely in the stable yard. His stallion snickered softly, a warning, it seemed, to him.

  "I know she’s going to be trouble, ’Yearner," he growled as he led the big black horse into the bright sunlight.

  "Are you always so slow to make ready, Milord?" she asked, having overheard his nasty comment to his horse.

  He watched her swing expertly into the saddle, adjust the crossbow she had looped over the pommel. She pushed the quiver of quarrels slung over her mare’s rump away from her leg for easier riding. She sat her mare like a seasoned soldier and stared down at him with cool patience.

  Grinding his teeth to stop a nasty retort, he took a deep breath, held it a moment as he met her challenge and then let it out slowly, releasing it as he did the uncharitable thoughts he was entertaining. He cocked one tawny brow. "Are you going to be an utter nuisance if I let you go with me?"

  "Are you going to be in need of saving every time I turn around?"

  He stiffened with his hand on the pommel. "I don’t think you know who the hell I am!"

  "And I told you it didn’t matter," she shot back. "You’re just a man."

  "Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?" he demanded, his eyes glittering with rage.

  "Liza, Milord."

  "Liza what?"

  "Just Liza." She cocked her head to one side and grinned. "And you are Prince Conar Aleksandro McGregor."

  Already annoyed at himself for having lowered his guard enough for the silly chit to place a dagger to his throat, he bit his tongue to keep a furious bellow from escaping. He couldn’t, however, keep the angry tone from filtering through his words. "And just how the hell do you know that?"

  She shrugged one dainty shoulder. "Who the hell else would you be?" she asked, mocking his tone. "The Elite Guards who came to your aid wore the personal insignia of the Prince Regent of Serenia. Your attitude, not to mention your churlishness and massive ego, supplied me with your true identity, Milord."

  "Churlishness?" he sputtered. He glared at her. "How dare you…"

  "I know you think it your due for all your loyal subjects to protect you, life and limb, if they can, but I, Milord, am no subject, loyal or otherwise, of yours!" She crossed her hands over the pommel of her saddle and arched her left brow. "Do we ride together or separate? It makes not a single whit of difference to me!"

  He desperately wanted to slap the smirk from her face. Swinging himself heavily into his saddle—something his steed did not appreciate and let him know by sidestepping none too gently—he glared at her as he yanked on the reins to still his recalcitrant beast. "You think you can keep up with me, girl?" His tone said he intended to see that she didn’t.

  "You think that bag of bones of yours can lead a goodly pace?" she quipped, leaning down in her saddle to take a closer look at his horse.

  "Seayearner can outrun any horse in the Seven Kingdoms!"

  "Seayearner? An unusual name for a stallion, don’t you think?" She clucked her tongue and pulled lightly on the reins, turning her horse’s head.

  "I’m going to regret this!" he breathed, thinking she hadn’t heard.

  "No doubt you will, Milord!" She kicked her mare into a gallop. "No doubt you will," wafted back to him over her shoulder.

  Conar sat for a moment and watched the horse and rider moving away from him at a brisk canter.

  "Okay," he told his steed. With a lethal grimace of malice on his handsome features, he put his boot heels to his stallion’s flanks and laughed. "Let’s see what they’re made of, boy!"

  The black horse sprang forward with an arch of its magnificent hindquarters and steed and master galloped out of th
e stable yard and after the mare and her mistress.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Conar wouldn’t have admitted it even under penalty of torture or death that he lagged deliberately behind so the girl could catch up with him. He simply told himself it was too hot and that his stallion should be kept to a slow trot. He wasn’t even aware of the wicked grin that lit his face as soon as he’d heard her mare’s hooves closing in behind him. He didn’t glance her way as she drew rein beside him and slowed the mare’s pace to his steed’s.

  They traveled close to three miles in a silence that had begun to weigh heavily on Conar. Not accustomed to females who could hold their tongue, her silence was strange and irritating and it bothered him immensely. He looked at her and could tell she was making a supreme effort to ignore him. She didn’t seem at all eager to open the conversation and he was annoyed he had to do so himself.

  "Just where is it that you’re going?" he finally asked.

  Her relieved breath told him she’d been waiting for an opening. Liza turned toward him. "To Boreas."

  "And just what is it you intend to do there?"

  Her hair was midnight black, as shining as a raven’s wing and just as soft looking. It flowed down her back in one long untidy braid with tendrils of escaping hair that teased her temples and neck. The forest-green eyes were clear and bright, sparkling with health and vitality. Long, thick eyelashes swept over those green depths and fanned the smooth ivory of her cheeks. The fullness of her lower lip was a deep coral and he wondered fleetingly if the tips of her breasts were the same shade of dusky color. She was slim with a tiny waist he knew he could span with his hands; her hips flared out beneath the fabric of her breeches and her legs, long and tapered in the snug fit of corduroy, appeared strong and capable. She was taller than most of the women of his acquaintance and her complexion a darker shade of ivory. He decided she must have grown up on a farm, for she was far too healthy looking to have lived in a city.

  She was young; thirteen, fourteen, at the most, he thought. There were already definitive curves under her silk tunic top. Staring at the peaks under the material, he nodded. She was fifteen and not a day over, he corrected.