Deveren jerked away. He stared at Damir, his breathing quickened, and he blinked away the horrified tears of compassion that had sprung to his hazel eyes.
Damir's face was sad, sympathetic. "Now do you see?"
Shuddering, Deveren wiped at his eyes. He nodded. Yes. Now he could see why Damir had gentled Lorinda's death for those who had loved her. It would have killed old Vandaris and driven poor young Pedric mad.
"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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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.
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.