Deveren could only stare, his gaze locked with the Healer's. "But… how? I'm… Vervain, I'm not even the right sex to be a Healer!"
At that, the Blesser of Health chuckled softly. "Do you think so trivial a thing matters to a goddess?"
"What… how…"
"That does not matter. Will you accept the task? For tonight, will you be Health's Chosen-the only man who has ever been granted the gift of heart magic? You have been a key part of this ever since the outset. Now you have a chance to help stop it."
Her eyes pleaded with him to say yes. Fear welled inside him. He had had a glimpse of the sort of person he could have been-Vervain had seen it, felt it. How could she think for a moment that he would possibly be acceptable to a goddess? The strain must have addled her wits.
Still, he knew he could not tell her no. Mutely, he held out the other hand to her. And gasped.
The moment her fingers made contact with both hands, Deveren felt an unnatural heat emanating from her. It was as if he had opened his palms to a blazing hearth. First it warmed, and then it grew hot, hotter. He did not pull away, but he gritted his teeth against the pain.
I am the Third who comes. Wield you the touch of Health.
The voice was inside his head. It was soft, strong, feminine. But it was most definitely not Vervain's. At that instant, the heat lessened and seemed to move to his chest, swelling, filling every crevice of it with a warmth that was more than physical. He ached with the pains of the world now, it seemed; his compassion for the injured, the sick, made him sob aloud. Tears filled his eyes.
Abruptly, it lessened, became tolerable. He gazed down at his hands in wonder. They glowed with a soft, barely perceptible radiance. Vervain removed her own hands, and when he glanced up, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he saw that her eyes were wet as well. He looked at her, and he could sense-almost see-the exhaustion emanating from her. Without realizing what he did, he lifted his right hand and placed it between her breasts. The glow around his hand increased, and he felt it leap from his hand to her heart. She inhaled swiftly, closing her eyes, and the weariness and fear fled before the healing of a goddess. Smiling, blinking back tears, she touched his face gently, then stepped back.
"Go, Deveren. Go… and Heal."
Vandaris wondered why he was dreaming of herbs.
The scents wafted through the scenario of the dream — or rather nightmare. Damir's face was being pounded to a bloody pulp. In the background were the cries of the Nightlands. Vandaris moved forward, anxious to help…
… and the pain, the pain, oh gods the agony of it… like a knife, a spear, a firebrand, shooting through his chest and gut. No one to help. No one to even break his fall as he hurtled toward the cobblestones, and his arms refused to move to catch himself. He fell heavily, striking his head. And there he lay as consciousness disappeared, breathing in the scents of herbs in the middle of a sweaty mass of humanity, wondering why in the name of all the gods he couldn't seem to do something, anything, to stave off the encroaching madness of a world turned upside down.
He became aware of something cool and wet on his forehead, easing the pain. Vandaris realized that he lay not on cold cobblestones, but on something else-a wooden floor? He opened his eyes and saw the reason for the overwhelming scent of herbs; hundreds of them seemed to point directly down at him from the rafters.
"He's waking up," came a nervous voice.
"Good," said another. Suddenly Pedric's face came into Vandaris's view. "Lord Vandaris? I apologize for the ropes, but they really are necessary."
And it was only then that Vandaris realized he was bound hand and foot.
A wave of hot fury swept through the councilman. With the anger came energy that banished pain. He roared in outrage and struggled with the strength of a man half his age, shredding the flesh about his wrists but succeeding only in tightening the knots.
"Help me get him down, Griel!" cried Pedric, leaping on the writhing body.
Griel ventured close, then backed away, wringing his hands. "He's awfully violent, Pedric, I don't know that I can-oh!"
Vandaris kicked out at the skinny older man, who jumped out of the way just in time. He growled at Pedric and rolled suddenly, pinning the youth beneath his bulky frame. Pedric gasped for air, and Vandaris grinned wickedly.
The voice inside him that protested, that mourned the viciousness with which Vandaris defended himself, was small and faint. But it could still be heard.
And as suddenly as it had come, the senseless rage evaporated, leaving pain in its wake. Whimpering, Vandaris ceased to fight and Pedric scrambled out from beneath him. 'Thanks a lot, Griel," he gasped.
Griel had the grace to look embarrassed. "Maybe we should explain it to him, rather than forcing it on him. It worked for me. I listened to you."
"And came after me with a poker before I subdued you," Pedric reminded him. Vandaris heard it all through the pain. "Do you…" he gasped, then tried again. "Can you stop the pain, P-Pedric? Do you know what's going on?"
"I do," said Pedric urgently. "Braedon has been visited by a curse. Nearly everyone's infected. It saps the strength and causes pain when a person thinks about doing something kind, something good. And it lends energy when one has an evil thought, a thought of violence and cunning. It will wear down your resistance until, in the end, you surrender to it-and then it will probably be the death of you."
"I would never embrace evil!" cried Vandaris in protest, only to clutch his chest as his heart thudded with a painful unnaturalness.
'There, you see?" said Pedric. "Just now you were willing to kill us, when you learned you were bound. Didn't it make you feel better when you fought?"
Vandaris could only stare. Shame flooded him, and hard on the heels of that emotion was pain. "Yes," he confessed. "But how can this curse be stopped?"
"You must trust us," said Griel. "Pedric here has two doses of the same elixir. The first draft will cause you to become totally, completely evil. A second draft will restore you to your normal state of mind, but you'll be rendered immune to the curse. I didn't believe him at first. Thought it a lot of silly nonsense until it worked on me. Healers didn't use to dabble in herb lore, you know. That was my business. Let them use their skills and me use mine, I say."
Pedric raised a hand and the older man fell silent. "We can force you, Lord Vandaris," said Pedric. "I don't want to, but I will if I have to."
Vandaris regarded him steadily, then nodded. Looking relieved, Pedric lifted the older man's head and positioned the uncorked bottle to his lips. "Sit on his heels," he instructed the apothecary. "Goodness, Pedric, I'm an old man!" protested Vandaris.
"Yes," said Pedric tactlessly, "but I know what this can do to someone. I know what it did to me."
Reluctantly, the apothecary positioned himself delicately across Vandaris's ankles. "Remember," said Pedric as he tilted the bottle, "two swallows, not just one."
Vandaris gulped down a mouthful, and with a suddenness that startled Pedric, who ought to have been expecting it, he screamed in fury and struck the youth's hand with his forehead. The bottle tumbled from Pedric's fingers, spilling across Vandaris's black clothing.
Pedric swore loudly and fumbled for another bottle. His face paled. "That was the last one!"
Vandaris kicked and the apothecary tumbled back. A second well-placed kick made him curl up in a ball, groaning. Pedric tried to hold him down, but Vandaris would have none of it. He squirmed like a madman, for suddenly the thought of drinking a second dose seemed to him to be the worst punishment some cruel god could inflict on a hapless mortal.