Sweet Health, thought Jemma to herself as she rowed the rest of the way to the dock, I am getting too old for this. She frowned to herself. Wasn't her stock of joint salve getting low? She would have to check.
Her mind still on her medicines, she retied the small boat in its proper place, picked up her basket, and began to walk down the now-deserted streets. Home was only a few minutes away. This is good, Jemma thought. Not up to another long walk. When I get home -
Her heart began to pound. She realized that now the streets were no longer deserted. Six armed guardsmen were waiting, concealed by shadows. Summoning her courage and straightening to her diminutive height, Jemma gazed at them in turn.
"Good evening, sirs. How may old Jemma the Healer help you?"
"There is sickness in Seacliff," said one. His voice hitched slightly. "The king is ill. Bhakir sent us to find you."
Fear coursed through Jemma's veins. Flight would be foolish. These men wanted her, and they would have her. That Bhakir sent them to find her, she had no doubt, but she knew there was no sickness involved. Somehow she must have been discovered. She only hoped that young Castyll was still all right.
"If King Castyll is ill, of course I shall come." At least, as long as she kept up the pretense, they would delay the inevitable pain. Keeping her head high, her long gray braid falling behind her to her knees, Jemma quietly went with the guards who had been sent to imprison her.
Alone in the small room that was now his bedchamber, Castyll lay in his bed. He was not asleep, but merely waiting for the dead time of night. When that hour came, he quietly left his canopied bed, soundlessly pushing aside the heavy draperies and moving with a deep grace that would have surprised him had he noticed it. Bare feet sank into the soft, thick fur of a mountain-cat rug. Naked, he walked across the rug, steeled himself for the cold stone of the floor, and went to the single candle that sat, unlit, on a small table by the door.
Drawing up a chair, Castyll eased himself down. The old piece of furniture did not creak in the slightest. He winced but a little as the chill wood touched his buttocks. Placing his broad palms on his thighs, Castyll stared at the candle, and concentrated.
When he had been three years old, he had been given the Test. Then, it had been simple: He had merely slipped his small child's arms into an adult-sized pair of arm bracers. Had he had the talent for magic, the bracers would have lit up with a warm, red hue. But nothing had happened, and all assumed that Castyll had, sadly, not been blessed with the talent for magic that graced so many of the Derlian kings.
But King Shahil hadn't accepted the ruling of the bracers, and he had encouraged Castyll to keep working, to keep learning, hoping that perhaps the talent would reveal itself later. One of the simplest tricks, Castyll knew, was lighting a candle using only the force of one's will. This would reveal the talent for either hand or mind magic. Mind magic would create the illusion of flame on the candle; hand magic would make the candle actually burn. The bracers were locked far away from his reach now. Only the candle remained.
He stared at it, as he had every night of his captivity, willing its blackened wick to spark to new life. And in that warm, soft glow of a single candle, Castyll's life would change forever. He would free himself and avenge his father's murder, ease tensions with Byrn, claim his birthright, and wed the Byrnian princess he so loved.
But the candle stayed dark. At last, his eyes filled with grit and aching with want of sleep, Castyll returned to his bed as stealthily as he had left it. He laid his dark head on the feather pillow and slept the sleep of exhausted youth. As he slept he dreamed of Princess Cimarys, uncrowned, her hair falling in an ebony cascade about her slim shoulders. She wore a flowing robe of fragile gossamer, and she smiled at him as she walked barefoot through an herb garden with the scent of the sea surrounding her.
CHAPTER FOUR
And Hope/Despair stood before him, but poor Tomai did not know which one he faced. The little boy Hope smiled reassuringly, but the old hag Despair leered. They held out the dagger and said, "There is but one place where you are sure to find the Tiger."
"Ah!" cried Tomai, his face pale. "So you would have me hunt the Tiger in his own lair? "
Braedon was an old city, one of the oldest in Byrn, existing by its present name and in similar incarnations for the better part of eight centuries. The name literally meant "place on the hill," and harkened back to a time when men had used the natural harbor and protective ring of surrounding mountains mainly as a defense against the Ghil. Trade had come later, after the more immediate struggle to eliminate the Ghil eventually drove the foul creatures ever northward, and humans rose in ascendancy.
Now the quiet natural harbor of centuries past was a bustling place of merchants and sailors, and those who made their living off of them. A few travelers, Damir among them, availed themselves of the perfectly serviceable road called Ocean's View that cut straight through Braedon and continued east through the mountains that protectively encircled the harbor city. The three ill-fated councilmen, brutally murdered by Bear and his cohorts, had been traveling along this road. But by far the greatest traffic in the city came by ship.
The worst parts of town were located "so near the water as t' be wet theyselves," as some of the inhabitants boasted. These were inns and taverns that catered to the needs of the often harsh men who did the actual sailing of the vessels. The farther east in Braedon one went, the better the environs grew. Continuing along Ocean's View, one passed the temples erected to the seven deities of Byrn and Mhar: Love, Light, Health, Traveler, Hope/Despair, Death, and Vengeance. Here, too, on a raised dais, were the stocks and, though not as often used, the gallows.
In the center of this area was a huge stone pillar called the Godstower. A single iron bell, over two hundred years old, hung from the top of the construct. The Godstower bell was rung seven times each day by the Blessers of each faith. Dawn was Light's time. Midmorning belonged to Love. Health's bell rang at midday. Traveler's Blesser pulled the rope in the afternoon. Twilight, that time of not quite day or night, belonged to the twin-countenanced Hope/Despair. Death sounded her knell when night was well on its way, and the middle of the darkness was Vengeance's domain. The gods lent their names, too, to the days of the week: Lisdae, Losdae, Healsdae, Trvsdae HoDesdae, Desdae, and Venedae.
Even farther down the road were the fine homes and more exclusive inns, gambling houses, and other forms of entertainment for the very well-to-do. Here, too, was the beautiful Garden, the pride and joy of the rich.
As Death's knell rang out on Travsdae, a scant five nights after the brutal murders of half the thieves of Braedon, the celebrants enjoying themselves in Deveren's lovely home paid the sound no mind. Deveren sipped honey wine from a gorgeous silver chalice and grinned to himself.
He enjoyed entertaining, and the pleasure never faded. There was little else, besides his beloved plays, that satisfied him as completely as hosting a gathering. The gentle, unobtrusive sounds of harp, flute, lute, and lyre; the happy buzz of good conversation; the glow on the guests' faces; the lavish spread of fine foods; the shrill punctuation of pleasant laughter-these intoxicated the handsome Lord Larath. People still talked about some of the parties he and Kastara had hosted, in their joyful, agonizingly brief time as husband and wife.
Deveren took another sip of the sweet fluid to hide the momentary flash of sorrow that flitted across his face. I still miss you so, my love, he thought. Regaining his composure, Deveren moved smoothly, inconspicuously, through the crowd of guests, making quiet notes as to who had attended and who was chatting with whom. His entire home was open and filled with light. Guests could wander anywhere and often did, from the dining hall where dinner had been held a few hours ago to the small armory just off the hall, from Deveren's beautifully decorated bedchamber to the tiny, romantic room atop the faux turret that adorned the house.