So it was Freylis, then, who had tried to kill him. He must have enlisted the aid of someone far more resourceful, for the whalebone-needle trap had been clever indeed. Deveren did not even try to fight. His hands, tonight, were meant to help, not kill. He would not so blaspheme them.
Snarling, Freylis spat in Deveren's face. Spittle mingled with the blood from Deveren's mouth and trickled down his face. Freylis called Deveren something dreadfully emasculating and laughed. "Won't even fight me, will you? I'd rip you apart, you bastard, if she didn't want you alive."
That jolted Deveren. She?
More familiar faces swam out of the crowd, each one stabbing Deveren's heart with a fresh pain of betrayal. Khem, still clad in the overly warm garb of the Master of Mischief. Clia, her flamboyant dress stained with blood and filth. More and more of his thieves materialized, all grinning hatefully as they roughly bound him hand and foot. He offered no resistance, for there was no purpose. Deveren, at least, would go to meet his fate knowing that he had saved a few souls from a dreadful destiny.
Freylis slung him over his shoulder and began to trot, jolting Deveren with each step. Others followed behind, jeering and laughing at their "leader" in such a state. Deveren craned his neck, morbidly curious, in an attempt to see where they were headed. They raced past the Godstower, which had not rung all evening (gods, were even the Blessers ill with this dreadful curse?) and it was only after the door slammed in his face that Deveren realized where they were.
In the temple of Vengeance.
He was thrown to the floor and the bonds on his feet cut. A voice reached his ears; a voice he knew well.
"I want you to walk to your death, Leader Fox!"
It was Marrika. Khem jerked Deveren to his feet, turned him around to face the Raven.
He barely recognized her. Gone was the sullen woman wearing form-fitting men's clothing and a constant expression of repressed anger. She stood in what was clearly a place of honor beside a slight man whose long, thin hands fiddled nervously with the tassels on his belt. Both wore floor-length robes of black cloth, but whereas the man's face was hooded, Marrika's was proudly bare for all to see. Her face was tranquil in its certain victory, and her hair tumbled about her shoulders in blueblack glory. Deveren had never before thought her quite so beautiful-or dangerous.
"Raven," he whispered.
"Not Raven, not anymore," she replied. "I am the Chosen of Vengeance!"
He continued to stare at her. She was almost otherworldly here in the enclosed, small building. The light from dozens of candles danced across her features, lending them an unreal appearance. Beyond what the candles illuminated, the darkness waited, hungry.
"You have come to me tonight, as part of the pact with Vengeance," Marrika continued. "All things come to me, in time. I have power, and followers, and now you, Deveren Larath, and soon the city, perhaps the whole country, shall be mine!"
"You're mad," Deveren breathed, but Marrika shook her head. And he realized with an even deeper loathing and horror that she was right. She was utterly, completely sane.
"Oh, how I have waited for this," she purred, walking around him and sizing him up from head to toe. There was a movement, and she extended a hand to him, palm up. "Recognize this?"
Deveren did. It was a white sliver of bone — twin to the one that had almost cost him his life just a few weeks ago. He didn't reply; he didn't need to. The shock on his face was answer enough for Marrika, who chuckled throatily.
"I thought you would. Whittling is a skill I picked up from my Mharian sailor lover. And the trap-which really ought to have claimed even you, clever Fox-was something I learned from the thieves in Mhar." She continued walking around him, her fingers trailing lightly, teasingly, over his back and buttocks. Deveren glanced around, meeting the gazes of men, women, and even children who, until now, he had thought were "his" thieves.
"My destiny does seem to be tied up with you, Deveren," Marrika continued, completing her circle and stopping to face him from inches away. "In Mhar, I learned things that have brought me to this place, this rank. And it was because of you that I fled to Mhar, some seven years ago."
Deveren waited, tense. The way her eyes glowed, she had some dreadful news to impart.
"I was so young then, a mere sixteen. Agile and quick, yes. But wise? Well, not really. You see, someone older than I would have realized that the house of the nobleman I planned to rob wasn't empty. Someone more experienced would have been able to complete the robbery without waking the pregnant woman asleep in the bed upstairs."
Deveren couldn't breathe. He felt suddenly icy cold, and not even the heat of his Healer's hands could warm him. Blood drained from his face and for a moment his vision swam. His knees trembled, then gave way, and he found himself kneeling on the hard-packed earthen floor, staring mutely up at the beautiful young woman who had so ruthlessly butchered his beloved wife.
She laughed, drinking in his pain, then squatted down to his level and yanked his chin up. "She begged, you know."
Tears filled Deveren's eyes, but her fingers dug into his jaw. The pain from his injured mouth shot through him. He couldn't turn away.
"Begged more for the life of her child than for herself. Very noble. But she'd seen me — could identify me-and, well, I admit I panicked. I was on my way to Mhar by ship in the first mate's bed before you even got home, Deveren Larath. And I slept very well."
Marrika straightened, nodded to someone. At once, Khem and Freylis seized Deveren's arms and hauled him to his feet. Their ungentle hands shoved him forward. Deveren, still reeling from the dreadful knowledge with which Marrika had stabbed him, only dimly noticed the incomplete circle of white on the earth, took note of the wooden platform encrusted with something dark and thick. It was only as they tossed him down in front of it that the smell reached Deveren's nostrils and the rest of the pieces of the dark puzzle came together.
The altar was crusted with old, dried blood. And a chunk of long, dark hair-human hair, not the fur of a mute beast-had gotten snagged in a crack.
"Lorinda!" Deveren cried brokenly, jerking backward. The image of the murdered girl vied with the recollection of his wife in his mind. Damir's words floated back to him: Kastara's murder was an accident… It was clearly a theft gone wrong — horribly wrong… Lorinda's murder has an element of anger about it, of-of ritual, if you will.
It had been a ritual. An abominable, vile ritual of darkness that made gorge rise in Deveren's throat. "Lorinda… you murdered her too! To become the Chosen!"
"Ah, now that it is too late, you see," laughed Marrika. Again she gestured. Khem grabbed Deveren's arms, jerked them forward-and gasped at the gentle glow radiating from his hands. "What the…" Now all the thieves could see plainly, and a cry of fear rose from them. They shrank back, their lust for blood suddenly expunged by fear for their own safety.
"No," whispered the man Deveren took to be the Blesser of Vengeance. His face was pale as parchment and he trembled. "No, we must not harm him!"
"Watch what you say to me, Kannil," warned Marrika, her throaty voice carrying a warning. He turned to her, his eyes wide with terror.
"He bears the mark of Health! Look at his hands!" A sob broke from him and he seemed to shrink about a foot. "She knows," he whispered. "Dear gods, she knows, and she is angry with what we have done… with what I have done, and felt, and thought…"
He stared wildly around at the thieves, his face gleaming with the sweat of sheer terror. "Don't you see? Health knows that we have blasphemed! She knows that Vengeance had nothing to do with this, nothing, and she has given this man the power to tame the evils we have loosed"
Without another word the Blesser rushed forward, his shaking fingers working to undo the knots that cut deeply into Deveren's wrists. "Lady Health, forgive me, forgi-"