No sound. They had not been spotted. As his eyes adjusted to the dim night lighting, Castyll was able to see Bhakir's guards. Two were out here, one of whom was clearly asleep at his post. The other was facing away from the house. Castyll suspected there were more in the front of the building. Anger flared in him again, but he pushed it aside.
His eyes attuned to the night now, he found he could also make out three of Damir's men. One sat comfortably in a large tree, a bow with a nocked arrow at the ready in case they were discovered. Other than his dark clothes and the soot smeared on his face, the man made little effort to hide himself. Another black-clad man waited by the stone wall. There were no weapons visible, but Castyll suspected the man was well armed indeed. A third man waited with-of all things-horses at the ready.
Castyll frowned in annoyance. "Your men may be good, but they do a damned poor job of hiding themselves," he whispered to Damir.
Damir shot him a look that Castyll couldn't readily decipher. He opened his mouth, was about to say something when a sudden yowl split the night.
It was Timmar, the temple's cat, and all she was doing was performing her duty of keeping the rats at bay. But one of the vermin had clearly managed to get in a good bite before Timmar's sharp claws ended its life, and Timmar was not a creature to suffer in silence.
The drowsing guard started awake while the one on patrol whirled. Castyll's heart climbed into his throat. Timmar and her dead rat were but a yard to his left. The man was staring right at him and Damir!
Panic seized the young man. He began to run toward the waiting horses. Damir grunted softly and reached out to grasp him. "No!" hissed the older man, but it was too late.
The guard began to run in their direction. Suddenly he stumbled and pitched forward. A slender black arrow protruded from his back. The guard who had been sleeping was now on his feet, looking around drowsily. He opened his mouth, perhaps to cry out a warning to his fellow guardsmen, and again an arrow sang through the air. The second of Bhakir's guards toppled, the arrow, fired by Damir's man in the tree, piercing his throat.
By now Damir had seized Castyll, twisted the young king's arm around in a painful grip and covered his mouth with one hand. "Silence!" hissed Damir, his lips brushing Castyll's ear. "I had worked mind magic on Bhakir's guards. We were all invisible to their eyes. They would not have seen us had you not bolted. Be silent, and all may yet be well."
Castyll nodded to indicate that he understood. Damir released him. They stood still as statues, Castyll trying to make even his breathing as quiet as he could, waiting for the sound of the other guards to come rushing back, demanding what was wrong.
But they did not come. The murders of the two men had been done in silence. The yowl of a temple cat was nothing unusual; and the remaining guards had been too far away to hear Castyll's frightened footfalls.
Castyll felt the panicky tension ebb away, and he sagged in Damir's grip. He had never witnessed murder before, and it horrified him. No matter that it had been done to save his life; no matter that the men now dead were in the pay of the hated Bhakir. No matter. Two men who had once been alive were now stiffening on the grass outside of Love's temple, and Castyll could not help but be repulsed.
Damir's grip was strong and comforting. "I know. The first time you see it…" his voice trailed off and he did not complete the thought. "Come. We cannot hope to hide the fact that you had help escaping, not now, but we can make good that escape."
Moving as silently as they could, Damir and Castyll hastened toward the waiting horses-and freedom.
Six days.
Six frustrating, lie-filled, anxious, and above all long, days. Days in which Deveren was certain that someone would send a Healer to attend the ill Damir. Days in which he dreaded that he would suddenly run out of falsehoods. Days in which he just knew, as certainly as the sun rose in the east, that he had said something untoward that would alert some stealthy spy that Damir was not home in bed suffering from a bad case of the sneezes, but was on Mharian soil and off to rescue the young king.
Six very difficult days.
The only bright spot in this dreadful time was the simple note that had been left with one of the servants: The cats have caught the rat, and sent it to the gods. The strange, huge, dangerous creature that had lurked in Braedon's sewers had been captured, killed, and burned by some of this thieves; he did not yet know who. That was a huge relief, though not as huge a relief as Damir's safe return would be.
Deveren had been obliged to attend the final performance of The Queen of All, though public appearances generally led to unwanted questions about his "poor sick brother." But Deveren could not refuse to show up; that would draw even more unwanted attention. Although the night was beautiful-clear and balmy, with a thousand stars glittering in the indigo sky-and the play was fine, Deveren Larath hunched in his seat at the amphitheater and watched the show with no enjoyment whatsoever.
Pedric was not in attendance. Deveren hadn't seen him since that dreadful day of Lorinda's funeral. It was unlike the young man not to attend a closing performance, but Deveren couldn't blame him. This was the show he had seen with his beloved on the night she was slain. Pedric probably couldn't bear watching it now. Still, Deveren worried about the youth.
A soft sob next to him brought his attention back to the stage. Ah, yes, this was the scene that always brought tears to the eye. The dreadful Elf-King, played so skillfully by Kyle Kierdan, was using his unnatural charms to trick the Queen of the title. Despite the fact that he had watched this play and this scene at least a dozen times during rehearsals and performances, Deveren found himself leaning forward, engrossed.
Kierdan was tall and slim; too tall for a real elf-king, if the legends were to be believed. But he moved with an uncanny grace, and his voice was smooth as honey. The poor Queen would have had to be more than mortal to resist such charms. And before she realized it, she had voiced her darkest desires-to murder, with her own hands, her enemy's children.
A sudden flash! Deveren blinked, and when his eyes had adjusted he saw that the Elf-King had two children with him. They wore hoods and cloaks, and the Queen rushed at them with a dagger, brutally killing the young things.
Deveren felt a chill. Playacting, yes; the blood was fake and the children would take their pleased bows at the curtain call. But it was hard to watch, nonetheless. Harder yet when the Elf-King crowed gleefully that the Queen had murdered her own children, taking evil delight in yanking off the hoods of the dead little boy and girl.
Deveren heard sobs throughout the audience, and smiled. What a show. That Kyle Kierdan — he was magnificent. Deveren watched the rest of the play, and stood along with the rest of the audience to applaud the hardworking actors. Kierdan received the loudest applause. And as always, to distance himself from the role of such an evil being, he removed the fair-haired wig and pointed imitation ears before he bowed.
Deveren smothered a grin. Poor Kyle. He was sensitive about that thinning hair of his, almost as sensitive as Damir was about his.
His grin faded as the thought registered. Suddenly Deveren was very glad indeed that he had chosen to come tonight.
An hour later, after Kyle Kierdan had been plied with drink and fine food at one of the better establishments in town, Deveren took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and stated the reason for the meeting.
"I want to buy out your contract with the troupe."
Kyle choked on the mouthful of roasted salmon with wine sauce. Deveren glanced around quickly, hoping the actor's coughing would not attract undue attention. Kyle recovered himself, wiped at his streaming eyes, and took a drink of wine. His face was angry but composed.