"She was your wife. It was her right. No one would have dared to deny her." Brelan looked away, searching for the right words. "When Legion and I freed you from that post, Tohre's men took you into the Interrogation Complex and wouldn't let us see you. They told us you had died. I watched them flay the flesh from your body. There was no way any of us could have known you had survived that kind of beating."

"Why did you let her see me like this?" There was anger in the soft voice now. Betrayal.

"You have to understand. They wouldn't let us see you. They wouldn't let us prepare you for burial because they said you couldn't be buried in Serenian soil because you were a-" "Traitor."

Brelan blushed. "Aye." He looked at the floor for a long moment. "They told us you and the others were to be taken out to sea, denied burial in your homeland as part of your punishment." He took a deep breath. "Legionwouldn't let them take you away without us saying goodbye."

"You should have kept her away!"

Brelan's hands tightened on his brother's knees. "She wanted to see you as much as we did. Probably even more. You were her husband. Her life!"

"You shouldn't have let her see me like this!" he repeated, shaking his head, not wanting to hear the words.

"She didn't run away in disgust," Brelan said. "She didn't cry out; she didn't flinch. She touched you. She kissed you." "You shouldn't have let her!" Conar shouted. "I asked Legion to keep her away." A look of intense pain crossed his face. "Did she see what Kaileel did? Was she there?"

"No! Cayn gave her a drug, forced her to take it. She was not awake during the punishment."

"What does any of that matter now?" Shalu asked. He was now watching the two men. "To a woman in love, it is what a man is inside that counts, not what he looks like. The only thing that has changed about you are the scars and even they are not worth mentioning."

No?" Conar asked, his voice filled with scorn. "Then why didn't you two want me to see what I looked like?"

"We only wanted to wait until you had time and distance between you and the Labyrinth. We wanted to prepare you."

"For how bad I look?"

"For theway you look!" Shalu snapped. "Those d.a.m.ned scars haven't changed you!"

Conar's voice cut both men to the quick. "They've made me less than what I was. I will never be the same again, will I? Kaileel Tohre made sure of that! There is nothing left of me for any woman to love!"

Conar thrust Brelan aside and laid down, staring at the ceiling. "Leave me the h.e.l.l alone."

"I don't think you..."

"I haven't told you what to think, Saur! Get the h.e.l.l out of my cabin!" He flung an arm over his eyes.

Shalu dragged on Brelan's arm. "Let's go."

"He's not going to give me any or-"

"Leave him alone!" Shalu warned. "I'll have Heil get that accursed mirror."

"Let it stay!" Conar said, glaring at them. Even though his voice was soft, it was deadly. "Iwant it to remind me."

Brelan was furious. "Why?"

"Because then I'll never forget all the things I have lost because of Kaileel Tohre. I won't ever be able to forget why he has to be destroyed!"

Less than an hour later, Brelan and Shalu were back in the cabin, a screaming, struggling Conar held tightly between them. The nightmare that had sent him plummeting into darkness after being rescued from the wine cellar at the Labyrinth had altered itself into a horrifying h.e.l.l on earth turning his flesh icy-cold even as sweat poured from his body in waves.

Two hours later, the Labyrinthian Fever came calling.

Now the nightmare was upon him once more and his door was locked against the help of his friends. He tossed and turned, caught up in the dreaming agony that made his hands turn to claws rending the silken sheets. He moaned, lost and hopeless whimpers coming from his mouth. His gasps turned to shouts of warning, his shouts to chilling screams of horror.

By the time Brelan and Roget retrieved the key from the credenza, Conar was at the height of his nightmare, gasping for air, his throat closing, his fingers plucking at the tightness there. He was pushing his upper body away from the mattress, his heels digging into the softness, his hips clear of the bed. His arms shot out suddenly to either side of him and his fingers splayed, curved into claws. His legs jerked wide apart as though he were staked to the mattress.

"Conar!" Brelan shouted and tried to lift his brother. Roget reached for Conar, as well. Both were astonished at how rigid Conar's body was, how cold to the touch.

"He's choking!" Roget said, putting his hands on Conar's head, forcing up the head to clear the airway.

Conar couldn't see them as they knelt over him. He couldn't hear their voices as they spoke to him. He couldn't feel their hands trying to help him. He was lost in the glaring darkness of his own self-induced h.e.l.l.

"What's he mumbling?" Roget asked, holding Conar's whipping head as best he could.

Brelan couldn't answer, for he was struggling to keep his grip on his brother.

"Something about Tohre," Jah-Ma-El said. Both men were surprised to see the warlock standing in the room.

"Get his feet, Jah-Ma-El!" Brelan gasped as Conar bucked.

Jah-Ma-El stared at Conar. "Let him go, Brelan."

"What?"

"It's you holding him down that's making matters worse. Get your hands off him."

Brelan wondered if he was right. It had been the six of them holding him down at the Labyrinth that had set Conar to screaming horribly when he finally looked at them.

"You got a reason for wanting us to let go?" Roget snarled.

"He doesn't like to be held down. No man does."

"He could hurt himself."

"He could, but you might be doing more damage by holding him."

"We're his friends!"

"But I don't think it's you he's seeing."

He was lying in a bed. A huge, monstrously carved black bed with spiraling posts twisted like serpents. The posts, crooked and warped, soared high into the vault of an endless black sky above and he looked at it with such a feeling of loss and hopelessness, he wanted to die.

On the headboard was a ma.s.sive carving of a gargoyle head with long sharp fangs and mouth dripping venom and vomitus. The gargoyle's eyes moved, watching him, a.s.sessing him, taunting him with nameless horrors that were to come. The room in which he was held prisoner was filled with a red smoky haze and the black abyss of the sky was streaked with blinding flares of running, forking lightning. He could hear the crack of lightning, the rumble of thunder and the bed shook, rattling clear of the floor.

He tried to sit up, but his ankles and wrists were bound to the towering posts by hissing, writhing vipers whose tongues lashed out at him with promise. Their deadly eyes gleamed at him through the flares of lightning and the constriction of his wrists and ankles intensified.

He knew he was naked, could feel the cold wash of frigid air flowing over his straining body and he knew a vulnerability that set his soul to quaking. He was clammy, yet fever-hot with glistening sweat dotting his upper torso and face.

Something moved in the shadows, something dark and infinitely evil. It lurked, just beyond his vision and permeated the room with a stench so vile, so turbid that it was hard to imagine what it was. The scent wafted under his nostrils and he gagged, feeling the bile rising in his throat. The aroma was as hideous as the fear it caused.

A form, black-robed and floating, came out of the haze toward him and he recognized his twin, Galen. There was an evil grimace on Galen's face; his lips parted in a malevolent smile so full of threat, Conar had to look away. A tremor of terror shot through his belly. Lydon Drake stood on the other side of the bed, a grin of vengeance on his thin lips and dead face.

"No." His voice was weak, strained, hoa.r.s.e.

Another black-robed shape, larger this time, taller and more threatening, detached itself from the red haze and glided toward him on silent feet, feet he was sure did not touch the floor. He felt a groan of fear escape his tightly compressed lips as the shape split apart and became two separate nightmare demons who came to stand at the foot of his bed, one to either side. Appolyon and Tymothy Kullen, their mouths stretched wide with evil laughter, watched him struggling to free himself.

He pulled against the slithering bonds, but the vipers held, tightened their grip. He felt the viper's fangs bury themselves in his flesh, watched with horror as the venomous serpents began to burrow under his flesh, to merge with it, mate with it. He struggled wildly to get free, whipping his head from side to side. He could hear the four men's demented, taunting laughter swelling all around him and felt feel things crawling, slithering, sliming across and through his arms and legs, invading his belly, his chest, his throat. Blood poured, shot, from his wrists in thick pulsating streams, drenched the bed, ran in rivulets down the sides and through the mattress. Wave after wave of crimson waste pulsed from his weakening body.

"Conar!"

It was an insidious sound, a mocking, warning call. He craned his head backward and looked into the demonic eyes of the gargoyle crest on the headboard. Even as he watched, the gargoyle face metamorphosed into the leering, knowing, hideous face of Tolkan Coure.

"No!"

He screamed, arching from the bed, but the gargoyle shifted. From the sides of its horrific head, two long, rubbery arms shot forth and grabbed Conar's head, anch.o.r.ed it against the rough wood of the headboard.

"Lie still!" the vile voice whispered. "It is nearing the time!"

Something slithered in the far reaches of the room. Slid about with a rustling, tormenting whisper of intent. The stench rose, washed over him and left him feeling unclean-unclean and violated in the worst way.

"He's coming!" Galen whispered.

He snapped his eyes shut against the sudden blinding glare of sick green light that burst forth from the depths of the red haze. The thunder became louder, ear-splitting, and the bed began to throb with a life of its own. Lightning forked over him, ran down the four posters, crackled along the frame and arced over him, spread along his body with the tongue of a vile beast lapping at his soul. He could feel it laving him, tasting his flesh, turning the skin of his belly and thighs black with its devouring heat. It stung him in a hundred places at once, and he threw back his head and screamed in agony.

Something touched his genitals. He stared at his worst enemy-Kaileel Tohre!

A whimper came from his trembling lips. He shook his head in denial, but Kaileel held him, lovingly touching the most private parts of him. The hands withdrew and Kaileel held one out to him, the red-tipped nails twice as long as the High Priest's arm. They curled upward, twisting as though they were alive.

Something flew across the room. Kaileel snaked out a long, wavering arm and plucked the missile from the haze. A shining, lethal-looking blade, curved and serrated along the sharp double edges shone in the flashing of the lightning hits. Tohre grasped the dagger by its black handle and held it up so Conar could see it.

The four posters disappeared and he felt his hands and legs held down by the men who had moved to his side. He lay, not on the gruesome bed with its mocking gargoyle head, but on a thin sacrificial slab, dripping with the blood of a goat carca.s.s swinging overhead. He could feel the slick, cooling goat's blood on the marble beneath him.

His eyes went to Kaileel's and he found he couldn't look away. Not even when he heard Kaileel's evil voice. Not even when the voice became words that set him to screaming.

"I'll see to it she never looks at you again, nor wants to!"

He felt the wicked priest's hands on his shriveling flesh. Felt the sharp cut as his manhood was sliced from his body.

"You're no longer a man!" Kaileel taunted through the haze. "What good are you?"

The scream burst from his throat in ever-increasing volume until a hand slammed tightly over his mouth. A voice broke through his hysteria; a face shone in the fading light.

"Let him up, Brelan! Let go of him! He can't breathe!"

He stared into his brother's frightened face, felt Brelan's fingers over his mouth, tasted the man's sweat on his lips. He lurched forward, gripping Brelan to him in a clasp that staggered his older brother.

"It was a dream. Jah-Ma-El sat on the bed and put his arms around both brothers.

"It's going to get better, little brother," Brelan promised. "I swear before Alel it will." Saur's grip tightened. "I willmake it better!" He looked over Conar's shoulder at a not-so-sure Roget du Mer. "Iwill make it better for him!"

"You're going to be all right," Jah-Ma-El said quietly. He stroked Conar's hair. "Your big brothers are here and everything's going to be just fine."

Roget turned, caught sight of Shalu standing in the door, Chase Montyne behind him, and he could have sworn the Necroman was a shade or two lighter. He glanced back where the two men were holding Conar.

In du Mer's heart and soul, he wondered if Conar McGregor would ever be normal again.

Chapter 3.

Conar felt someone watching him, but seeing no one, he went back to contemplating the serene garden. He dangled his bare feet in the pool, smiling as the darting goldfish scurried away. He stilled, waiting for another curious fish to inspect his toes, laughing as the inquisitive fellow nibbled at him, then flitted away.

He looked at the sky peeking through the tresses of a spreading willow and marveled at its crisp blue color. An occasional bird soared across the azure expanse, but not a cloud marred the blue perfection.

Just as the horizon was devoid of clouds, so were his eyes beginning to lose the clouds that had dulled them. After years of sand, rock, and glaring white light, the garden, dappled with shadows and lit with the pleasant streaks of filtered sunlight, the gentle breeze playing among the lush foliage, brought him peace. The sight of green growing things felt calming to his system, so long denied the fruits of life. He reveled in the clean, sweet smell of the flowers and gra.s.s; he listened to the cooing of birds in the trees, the squall of a peac.o.c.k in the farther section of the garden.

He was mending spiritually, sewing together the torn pieces of his rent world, piecing together his life to make it whole again. The man, himself, might still be ripped apart inside, might yet unravel altogether, but his world, at least, was once more intact-a fresh bolt of cloth being made ready for the pattern of his new life.

There it was again. That feeling of being watched.

He casually turned his head, surveyed the trees, the paG.o.da nearby where a shrine to one of his uncle's people was housed. He didn't see anyone, but he didn't sense danger, either. He just knew someone was watching him, so he bided his time, looking into the swirling water where a larger goldfish had scampered away at his slight movement.

A little giggle.

He narrowed his eyes, shifted them from side to side, trying to catch whoever was teasing him with their presence. He heard a m.u.f.fled voice, another stifled giggle, then a faint rustling in the azalea bushes. When he looked that way, he saw nothing.

Another giggle, a command to silence, then the pale flash of blue silk.

A little boy of about five stood close to the thick trunk of a gnarled tree, almost hidden in its shadow. He was peering out from behind the trunk, a shy smile on his round face. When he saw Conar looking at him, he covered his mouth to hold back a giggle, then slipped behind the trunk.

"I don't bite," Conar called in a soft voice. He had almost made up his mind to go to the tree when the boy emerged from behind the trunk and hesitantly walked to the pool. He didn't say a word, just sat beside Conar and stared into the water.

He was content to let the silence continue. The boy began to swirl his feet in the pool, scaring away the fish. Conar laid a gentle hand on the boy's knee, shook his head, put a finger to his lips and pointed at the fish huddled together at the far side of the oval pool. The child nodded and stilled instantly, watching as the fish moved out in widening circles toward this new oddity in their pool.

Conar felt another presence. He saw two children, walking hand and hand, sidling toward him. The younger of the two, a little girl of about two, had her thumb in her mouth, but was smiling at him around the obstruction. He nodded as they came to sit at the opposite side of the pool, throwing the goldfish into panic once more.

"Shhhh!" the boy told them. He pointed at his still feet.

The newcomers understood and nodded.

They began to drift toward Conar in twos and threes then, Chrystallusian children, no older than ten, no younger than two, he thought. They sat around the pool, everywhere but to his immediate right, ringing it completely. He counted fifteen sets of inquisitive, cheerful, shy eyes that held no fear of him. If anything, he realized with a blush, they found him amusing, for they would catch him looking their way and duck their heads. They didn't speak, just giggled.

Something came into his line of vision to his right. He looked to find a beautiful yellow rose being held out to him. He glanced into the face of an older child-twelve, thirteen, he couldn't tell-and took the flower, brought it to his nose and smiled.

"Thank you." He held out his hand to her, instinctively knowing the place beside him had been purposefully left for this child. She put her tiny hand in his and he helped her to sit.