A low growl came by his right foot. Deveren froze, fear jolting through his system. He didn't even dare look down at the beast, for fear the eye contact would be regarded as a challenge. Instead, he closed his eyes and wished desperately that he'd brought a dagger with him tonight.
He felt one of the great canines snuffling at his knee, felt the warm breath and cold nose even through his breeches. From the other side of the wall, he heard the crisp, firm sound of booted footsteps approaching.
Deveren held his breath, afraid that his nervous, rapid breathing might give him away, both to the animal that sniffed him with drowsy confusion and the extremely efficient captain who was on patrol just a few yards away.
The dog's nose moved to the other leg, continued sniffing. The booted footsteps came closer, closer, until they were right where Deveren stood huddled in the cold embrace of the wall's shadow. They did not pause, but continued purposefully on, fading into the distance as Jaranis's route took him away from the thief who stood, heart pounding, on the other side of the wall.
The sniffing stopped. The big dog snorted, irritated and baffled by this thing that looked human but smelled like a tree. The warm breath went away. When Deveren chanced a look down at the beast, he found it flopped over on the grass, breathing deeply and regularly.
Deveren closed his eyes in relief, the tension flooding out of him. Then, taking a deep, steadying breath, he knelt down beside the unconscious animal and gently unfastened its collar. The other two were equally insensible and offered no protest as he relieved them of their symbolic "teeth."
Stuffing the three studded collars into his pouch, Deveren cautiously climbed up and peered over the wall. Remarkably, his luck still held. No one was about. Quickly he scrambled back over the wall, landing softly on the grass.
"Be careful, Deveren Larath," came a deep, musical, feminine voice behind him.
Startled, Deveren whirled. He stood inches away from a beautiful young woman who smiled enigmatically at him. At once he knew who she must be; her clothing gave her identity away immediately. She was dressed head to toe in a figure-hugging gown of dark black. She carried a carved staff, which he knew to be made out of rosewood, and the jewels embedded in it glinted in the moon's light. Her head was bare, and her long hair was parted in the middle and fell in a cascade of white down her back.
White? Deveren thought for an instant. Bleached, clearly. She’s taking this resemblance to her goddess a bit far. For of course he knew the woman to be the Blesser of the goddess Death. All Blessers would have been invited; it would have been an unforgivable breach of etiquette for Vandaris not to have extended an invitation. But most Blessers didn't take advantage of such social gatherings- and he'd never before heard of Death's Blesser ever appearing at such an event.
He opened his mouth to greet her politely, telling himself that it was her dark clothing that had enabled her to escape his notice, but she held up a commanding hand. The words died in his throat. "Be careful," she repeated, "on this night of nights. Sometimes mortals try to cheat Lady Death. I am the First who comes. Be prepared for the others."
Without another word, and completely ignoring his half-voiced query, the Blesser of Death turned her back on him and strode into the shadows, which reached to hide her as if she hadn't been there at all.
Deveren's throat was dry. His heart slammed against his chest and he found his hands were shaking. He leaned back against the wall. What had she seen? What did she know? Was she just trying to frighten him with her strange pronouncement? What was all that nonsense about "first" and "others?" One thing was for certain. He did need to be careful. Deveren couldn't believe he hadn't heard or seen her approach.
He calmed himself, took a deep, steadying breath, and composed his features. By the time he ran lightly up the steps to reenter the Councilman's Seat, he had an easy smile for the guards on duty. Deveren Larath had clearly gone for a stroll in the pleasant night air; nothing more.
He walked down the hall, keeping his movements loose and comfortable in case anyone was watching, and paused by the doors to the large hall. Within, he could hear the clear voice of the "Queen" railing against her enemy, hear the answering rumble of the Captain of the Guards as he protested his innocence. Halfway through the first act, then. Plenty of time.
Deveren's normal cocksurety began to return in some small measure. He'd been badly shaken, first by the dire combination of dogs and guard, and then later by the uncanny visitation of Death's earthly representative. Now he reminded himself that he had finished two of the three tasks that had been set to him, and the third-stealing a hairbrush! — was certain to be the easiest.
He ambled guilelessly through the halls, smiling at everyone he met, conducting himself as if he belonged. He was known and recognized, and encountered no difficulty.
He entered the wing that housed the private solars, and quietly began poking his head into room after room. At last he came to the one that must belong to Lorinda.
It was simple, almost austere, as befitted one who had lived most of her life in devotion to her deity. There was only a trunk, a small table with a pitcher and basin, and a bed. The stone walls had been whitewashed, and though Deveren did not dare light a candle that might signify his presence, there was plenty of illumination pouring through the opened door and striking those clean, unadorned white walls.
No, not quite unadorned. A painting graced one of the walls. Directly beneath it was a small rush mat, a basin full of dried flowers, and an unlit candle. Curious, Deveren stepped forward and peered at the painting. It was small and crudely done, probably the work of Lorinda herself, but the image was unmistakable. It was Love, the naked little child, embracing her sacred beast, a fawn as young and innocent as herself. At once Deveren realized that the rush mat and its attendant items were the girl's private altar, and he stepped back hastily.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw still more flowers. Clearly, young Lorinda went to the Garden every day and festooned her austere quarters with the one decoration that most pleased her goddess. A smile touched Deveren's lips. This glimpse into her private room revealed a great deal about the girl-no, the woman, he mentally corrected himself. And he liked what he saw.
But time was passing, and the longer he dallied, the more likely it was that he would get caught. The thought snapped him out of his reverie, and at once Deveren's eye became critical, exploratory, us he began to seek out Lorinda's hairbrush.
He did not find it. Deveren frowned to himself. In a place this clean, this uncluttered, it ought to be a simple matter. He placed his back to the door and began analyzing the room, inch by inch. The bed. Its coverings were not tousled. The blankets lay neatly over the pallet, the single pillow hid nothing. He patted the bed down gently, careful not to disturb anything.
He examined the top of the little table. Bare, save for the empty basin and pitcher full of water. Where would a young woman keep her personal items? Kastara had always left hers lying about. She was rather bad about it, actually, and Deveren was always finding hairpins or combs or mirrors in the most unlikely places…