Deveren nodded, drained his mug, and went to the steaming pot by the fire for a second serving. As he passed Pedric, the younger man held out his cup wordlessly. He, too, could stand another dose of the calming brew.
"Well, the herbal remedy mimics that. There must be two doses. The first replicates the surrender to the darkness. The second restores wholeness. That was why I warned you that Pedric would get worse before he got better."
A sudden, dreadful thought occurred to Deveren. "What about a recurrence? Does this cure someone permanently or temporarily?"
Vervain now allowed herself a tired but proud smile. "It is a permanent cure. I gave Allika a dose earlier today, before I sent her over to you. If she had not been cured, it would have made her angry and cruel again. But it had no effect-other than to make her stick out her tongue and protest that it tasted bad."
Deveren laughed. His heart began to lift. With a permanent cure that could be spread to the public at large-his face fell.
"But how do we get everyone to drink it?"
Vervain rubbed her bloodshot eyes. "That, my dear friend Deveren, is the question of the hour." Her voice softened. "I do not need to drink the tincture. I will not succumb to the sickness; I know I can fight it alone. That is part of my gift of Healing. Allika is cured. Pedric is cured. But, Deveren…" Her voice trailed off.
Deveren felt something cold clench his stomach. "But… I haven't displayed any symptoms. I took precautions- even burned my clothes like you suggested. I'm not sick."
"No," Vervain agreed. "But think. You met Allika right after she had been bitten by the rat. You bore her over here. You led Pedric here. Deveren, you may not be manifesting symptoms yet, but all I know about the spread of disease tells me that you either are infected now or shortly will be."
"You… you want me to drink that? As a precaution?"
She nodded, slowly, implacably.
Deveren sat silently. A Healer could not force him to obey her suggestions, when she did not know for a certainty that disease would result. That was part of her creed. And Pedric was not going to insist, either. They left the decision up to Deveren. He thought about what, exactly, it would mean- to become evil. Ah, gods, he didn't want this…
… and then he thought of Allika, and Pedric, raging and out of control. Better to choose the moment than have it thrust upon him. Abruptly, his decision made, Deveren snatched the bottle from the table and swallowed a huge mouthful.
Vervain rose, crying, "Pedric, hold him!" At the same moment, Pedric, alarm spreading across his handsome face, moved to grasp Deveren.
But he was too late.
The mixture was not the bitter draft Deveren had expected. It was honey-sweet, slipping easily down his throat. Instantly, Deveren felt wonderful. The worry for his brother slipped from his mind. He moved easily out of Pedric's clumsy reach, almost dancing free. Ah, Pedric.
"Sorry, friend. Should have left you as you were. It's a lot more fun."
He directed his gaze at Vervain, who drew back before it, her eyes wide. She was a pretty piece. Needed to get rid of those bulky robes. Deveren was certain that underneath all those red garments was a body that would thrill a man in bed. He'd show her what a real man was like. And she'd like it. Or if she didn't, no matter. Murder held the same release and pleasure as copulation. He instinctively knew it.
Again Pedric tried to grab him. This time, Deveren landed a solid punch to the younger man's face. "Ah, ah, ah," he chastised as Pedric staggered back. He spared another glance for the Healer. "Not now, pretty thing. I'll come back for you when you're least expecting me. But here's a little something to whet your appetite."
He strode over to Vervain and roughly pulled her to him. She struggled in his arms. 'That's it, fight me," Deveren growled. He bent his head, his tongue licking her face like an animal's as she cried out and attempted to turn her face away. Oh, to be able to take her right here, right now…
"No!" cried Pedric. Deveren felt strong hands on his arm, spinning him around. Vervain stumbled backward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her reach for the tincture.
Deveren turned on Pedric and saw that his former friend had drawn his dagger. He'd had enough of this youth's meddling. He charged and Pedric fell before the onslaught of pure fury, whirling to unexpectedly attack the youth and pinning him on the floor with a knee on his throat.
"Try to pull a knife on me, will you? It'll be harder to do that when you don't have any fingers, won't it?" He savagely opened Pedric's hand, and the blade clattered to the floor. Deveren forced the hand flat, spreading the fingers, and prepared to use the dagger to slice off Pedric's fingers one by one.
"Kastara! "
The word, barely a whisper issuing from Pedric's throat, halted Deveren, blade poised above Pedric's little finger, penetrating the hot dreams of lust and violence. Kastara. Beloved. A deep love battled with the newly aroused evil. And then pain, pain so intense he had never tasted its like, hit him like the fist of an angry god. All the strength went out of him and he rolled off Pedric, clutching his stomach and squealing like a rabbit with the agony.
At once he felt fingers pinching his nose shut. Another hand forced open his mouth, poured a liquid into it. He had to swallow or choke to death.
This time it was bitter, harsh and acidic, and burned his throat as he gulped it down. There was a sudden ache as the evil that had flooded him receded. He blinked, coughed, then slowly sat up.
Pedric had scooted away, rubbing his throat. Vervain, too, had stepped out of immediate reach. Both were eying him warily. Hot shame rushed over Deveren as he recalled what had just happened. What to say? What to do? How could he possibly apologize? And the one thing that lingered, that frightened him the most, was that somehow he was aware that what had just washed over him was not insanity. He had merely become the Deveren that might have been, had there been no love, no goodness, no light to brush his life in the previous thirty-four years.
There was a beast within everyone, and Deveren had looked it in the face. His expression of horror and contrition must have reassured them, for they relaxed as they watched him. Pedric smiled shakily. "Welcome back," he said quietly.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
And Parin took the Sword of Vengeance, and for seven days and seven nights, the river ran red with blood.
Castyll had been able to sleep only for a few hours; a short nap in a whore's scented bed. Both he and Damir knew that speed was of the essence. By the time midmorning came, Bhakir would have already put word out about Castyll's disappearance. He would be closing roads, searching ships, and it would be increasingly dangerous to be en route to Jarmair. But only in Jarmair would Castyll be able to gather armed men to fight for him; and only with armed men could he hope to defeat Bhakir.
So Castyll, Damir, and his loyal men were on their way as dawn lightened the horizon. With relatively little effort-or so it seemed to the young king-Damir had put an illusion on Castyll that disguised his features so that he would not be recognized. At one point, traveling along a little-used road that led out of Ilantha, Castyll had glanced down at the major road and seen a large group of armed men heading for the port city. He'd shuddered, and thanked whatever god was responsible for sending Damir to Mhar.
They talked of magic, to pass the long hours on horseback over difficult terrain. Damir seemed certain that Castyll had indeed inherited the ability to use magic, and that the only thing stopping Castyll was his own trepidation. That night, when they made a camp devoid of fire for warmth or cooking meat-Damir had deemed it too dangerous-the older man had gently probed the young king's mind, seeking confirmation of what he expected.