King's Man and Thief (26 page)

"Something is behind all this, I'm convinced of it," Damir continued. "And I have to go to Mhar myself. I can't risk anyone else. The only reason I'm even telling you is, I need someone to keep up the pretense that I haven't gone."

"What? How am I supposed to do that? Make a scare-the-crow and prop him up in the window?"

"It should only be for a few days. You can tell people I'm ill, or have gone on a sightseeing trip. I will leave tomorrow—that's Healsdae. If I'm not back by Loesdae, you'll have to come up with something." He hesitated, then added softly, "I fear for the young king. You should know that I'm planning to bring him back with me if I can."

Deveren buried his face in his hands. "From the cook pot to the kindling, Damir. Dear gods."

"If Bhakir knows I'm gone, he will look for me on Mharian soil. You've got to make sure that doesn't happen. I leave the methods," and here Damir, damn him, actually
laughed,
"to your lively imagination. Good heavens, Dev, if you can perform three Grand Thefts and not get caught, goodness knows what that fertile brain of yours will concoct when faced with a real challenge."

Deveren swore violently.

Castyll stared dully at the mound of herbs that lay where he had placed them. They were rotting; no human hand had disturbed them.

He had come to the garden nearly every day; and nearly every day had placed a "message" for Jemma. Castyll had left such herbs as fennel and thyme, indicating he was keeping his courage up. Then rosemary, for remembrance, and rue—"to set free." Finally, just yesterday, he had left a handful of bay leaves. Their message: "I change but in death."

He was convinced that Jemma could no longer come to the garden. And that meant but one thing—that somehow Bhakir had found out about their correspondence.

Castyll plucked a sprig of mint and continued on his daily walk. He felt the presence of the guards behind him, and wondered if he would ever be able to walk in freedom again. The dinner five nights ago was, the young Mharian king was convinced, the beginning of the end. The power of men such as Porbrough, Zhael, and Bhakir seemed to be growing by the hour. He would have one chance to escape; to try to hide among his people and somehow rally their support.

He laughed without mirth as his booted feet trod the little paths through the flowering garden. How could he go unrecognized? Who would he contact? It was more than likely that he would be recaptured within hours, even if he did manage to make an unnoticed escape.

I
change but in death.
Castyll recalled the phrase associated with the bay leaf, and knew that he could pursue no other course. If he turned coward now—if he went back to Seacliff after his night with the Blesser of Love—he knew Bhakir would drop the facade. It was getting too deep. Only imprisonment—true imprisonment—or death awaited him if he remained. He would no doubt be killed immediately if he were recaptured, but at least for a few hours he would have lived up to the expectations of his father and tried to do what was right. And perhaps his death might make a martyr out of him. Perhaps people would realize what was going on before it was too late; before the net closed in around them.

It was a fool's dream and Castyll knew it. But even with that knowledge heavy on his head and heart, his spirits lightened as he thought about the day, five days hence, when he would ride to the temple of Love. It would be a highly public journey, but a highly private night.

It was a chance. And as King Castyll strode, a prisoner, through the garden that ought to have been his, trailed by guards who should have been willing to die for him, Castyll knew that the chance was more than worth it.

Though the body shall crumble to dust, know ye that the spirit lingers on, and shall take flight from the earthly prison, and shall serve the gods as it strives for the great Light.
—excerpt from traditional Byrnian burial ritual

It was too little to be noticed, at first.

All across the city, Braedonians were finding that their sleep did not refresh them as much; that their spouses were much more irritating to be around than they used; that the merchants cheated in the quality of their goods; that the drunks in the streets were more obnoxious than hitherto. They also discovered that tempers soared more quickly, that tavern brawls were bloodier—and that this was much to their liking.

It was right, wasn't it, to strike a man who had insulted you? To beat your wife when she displeased you? Children were supposed to obey, weren't they, if they didn't want to make their hardworking parents angry? And if one's heart felt more at ease when one had wounded another, through scathing words or an aptly placed blow, well then, that was merely a sign that one had done what was right.

Wasn't it?

Of course it was.

The day itself seemed to mock the solemn and tragic ceremony. It was another typical summer day—bright blue skies, with only a hint of wispy clouds, a warm, strong sun, and a breeze that came in off the ocean to cool what might have been an uncomfortable heat.

The public crier had begun his melancholy task at dawn. He had walked through the streets of Braedon, announcing Lorinda's death and the time and place of the burial. Deveren had had warning, thanks to Damir, and when he rose he dressed in black. A messenger had come from the Councilman's Seat shortly after the crier's voice had faded. Lord Vandaris wished Damir to be one of the pallbearers. Both Larath brothers were invited to march in the procession.

Damir had brought no black clothes, and those he had perforce borrowed from Deveren hung loosely on his slender frame. Now Deveren waited with the throng of black-clad mourners outside the Councilman's Seat. He knew what was transpiring within. Health's Blesser—Vervain, wasn't it?—would be working side by side with Death's Blesser to prepare the body. Together, the representatives of the gods of Health and Death would be briefly united in their tasks. They would bathe the torn body with scented water; anoint it with balsam and ointments. They would sew Lorinda first into a linen shroud, then into a deerskin. They would lay her in the wooden coffin, on a bed of moss and scented herbs.

Deveren did not envy them their sad task.

He squinted up at the sun; it was midmorning now. How could such a day be so beautiful? He returned his attention to the massive doors. As custom demanded, they were draped with black fabric.

Then, with no warning, the doors swung open. The Blessers were first. They came in order of their deity's age; Love first, the eldest of all. She was a middle-aged woman with streaks of white in her dark hair. She was clad not in the more usual, arm-revealing tunic typical to her rank, but in a heavy gown.

Following the Blesser of Love was Light's Blesser, an elderly gentleman also clad more formally than usual. Third was Vervain, clad in heavy red robes, her hair completely covered by her formal wimple and her eyes encircled by dark smudges. She caught Deveren's eye and nodded slightly in recognition. He nodded back. Then came Traveler's Blesser, a young man who seemed to have trouble moderating his healthy stride to the solemn walk the occasion warranted.

Death's Blesser was next. Deveren was confused at first. He had seen Death's Blesser on the night of his Grand Thefts, when she had given him that odd warning that had, perhaps, later saved his life. That woman had been young and very beautiful, though rather alarming. This woman, though dressed in the formal black robes that marked her as a Blesser of her deity, was much older.
And much less attractive,
Deveren thought to himself, hoping the observation wasn't offensive to the goddess. What was going on? Perhaps Braedon's Blesser was ill today and they had asked one of the neighboring towns to send their Blesser as a substitute.

Next in line were the earthly representatives of Hope/ Despair. This twinned-natured god was perhaps the hardest for mortals to comprehend. Health, Death, Love—all were concepts easily grasped. But the strange, contradictory nature of Hope/Despair was unsettling. How eagerly they had all hoped Lorinda would be found alive and unharmed; how bitterly they had despaired at the sight of the corpse, gentled though the sight had been by Damir's compassionate mind magic. Since the divine being Hope/Despair had two faces, s/he had two representatives. The adult Blesser who assumed the aspect of Despair was a woman, and the youthful innocence of the boy Hope could only be conveyed by a lad whose years were few. Because of this, Hope/Despair was the only divinity who allowed children, who were normally merely Tenders to other gods, to be as valued as adult Blessers. The woman seemed to be too beautiful to represent Despair, but the Tender could almost have stepped out of a painting, so perfectly did his sweet face seem to embody Hope.

Bringing up the rear of the line of Blessers was Vengeance's Blesser. He was a slight, small man, and moved with quick, jerky movements. Deveren could not see his face; it was hidden in the shadow of the black cowl. Despite the warmth of the day, a shudder passed through Deveren. Both the thought of Vengeance and the sight of his twitchy little Blesser were unnerving.

The murmurs of sympathy escalated into sobs and wails. Lorinda's coffin, closed and draped with black cloth, emerged. It was borne on a pall, and the four men who had the grim burden of taking the once beautiful maiden to her final resting place were a fragile-looking Vandaris, a gray-faced Pedric, a solemn Damir, and a stricken Telian Jaranis, the captain of the guardsman who had failed to protect an innocent or even discover her killer. For a moment, Jaranis met Deveren's eyes, then he glanced away quickly.

It was too close, too much like that horrible night seven years ago. For just a moment Deveren was there, shouldering the weight of his dead wife's coffin, his face no doubt as gray as Pedric's, his eyes as haunted.

Deveren was not aware that his fists clenched and his mouth thinned. He had a group of thieves at his command. Somehow they would find the killer. Somehow. He could not stand by and hold his head up knowing two beloved women had gone to their deaths while their killers walked free.

Now the mourners were in line, carrying candles. Deveren was not surprised to see that many of his thieves were among them. He knew it was not for love of Lorinda, though it might have been in sympathy for Pedric, one of their own. Most likely it was because traditionally, candle-bearing mourners could earn alms at the funerals of wealthy families. Deveren couldn't find it in his heart to begrudge them; he knew how hard life was for some of them.

Deveren fell in line, one of many in a sea of black. He kept his emotions carefully in check, for he knew if he wept it would not be just for Lorinda; and if tears started for Kastara in such an environment, Deveren did not know if he could stop them.

They walked down the cobbled streets of the wealthy parts of town, then the line of mourners turned and headed up into the mountains. Once, several decades ago, the dead had been buried closer to town, down in a meadow not far from the ocean. But when a terrible storm had come, it had left in its wake the macabre sight of dozens of corpses floating in the harbor. So Braedon's cemetery had been moved farther away from such calamities. The dead deserved to rest in peace.

Now the cemetery, fenced in by a low wall of stones, was in sight. The gate stood open, and the procession turned in to it. Ahead, Deveren caught sight of Vervain's vivid red garb as the Blessers went to the grave that had been prepared earlier that morning.

The procession came to a halt. Deveren threaded his way through the crowd. Vandaris would want to see him there. He stood, the sun beating down upon his uncovered head, as the coffin was gently lowered into the grave. The smell of flowers and clean, newly dug earth reached Deveren's nostrils. It was a dreadfully incongruous scent.

The wind rose, and it snatched away the Blessers' words as each one of them spoke in turn. Deveren strained, but could only catch phrases: "Pure light," "courage," "family have strength to endure," and other phrases that were meant to comfort but more often than not sounded hollow and weak.

Deveren knew that the theory regarding life after death was that the spirits of the dead served the gods in various ways, until they had achieved enough purity to pass into immaculate, holy light. It was a pretty idea, and Deveren was certain that the majority of people believed it. But he did not. Perhaps if Kastara had not died so violently and unnaturally, he might have been more willing to listen to tradition and let her go. But she had not, and Deveren had no comfort in the thought of his beloved as pure, holy light.

He let them drone on and turned his attention to the four men who had borne Lorinda here. Jaranis clearly felt responsible for the death, and seemed ill at ease next to Vandaris. Damir had struck the perfect pose between grief and composure. It was utterly typical of the diplomat, Deveren thought. Vandaris seemed as if he had aged a decade. He'd always been on the heavy side, his face round and jovial in leisure, reassuringly solid in his role as councilman. Now the excess pounds seemed to be literally weighing him down. Surely he had not stooped quite so much before. And there were hollows in his pasty cheeks despite the double chin. Lorinda had been his only child.

Pedric seemed to be the hardest hit by the dreadful turn of events. He, too, had aged. One would have to look hard to find the handsome, rakish youth beneath that solemn, stricken face. Deveren feared that one might not find it again. He seemed ill at ease, fidgeting as the Blessers continued their seemingly eternal litanies and scratching himself nervously. There was something in his pain-filled eyes that Deveren did not like, not at all. Something that seemed too familiar—cold anger.

At last it was over. Vandaris stepped forward and tossed in a handful of earth. It landed with a dull
thump
on the coffin. Deveren felt a lump rise in his throat. Of all that had transpired, that dreadful sound was the worst, the saddest. It was so final; so real.