"Since your dear father's untimely demise," Bhakir had moaned when Shahil was barely cool, "I fear for your life, Your Majesty. You should be guarded, at least until the crown is securely upon your head. Sweet Health alone knows what I would do should anything happen to you while you were in my care."
Like what happened to my father, when he was in your care? Castyll thought to himself bitterly. An accident, they called it; a bone stuck in the royal throat. But Castyll had been there when his father choked to death; had seen no bone in the soft pheasant meat upon which Shahil had dined. He had, though, been helpless witness to the dying convulsions of a great man, and had gotten a whiff of a bitter almond scent from Shahil's plate before it was whisked away.
He knew at that moment, with Bhakir sobbing loudly and falsely, that his own life was in danger. He and Shahil had come for a pleasant few months together at the summer palace, but the small, pretty castle had become a place of mourning and fear.
Castyll knew the men for what they were — guards indeed, but not for his protection. He was a prisoner here at Seacliff as surely as if Bhakir had clapped shackles on his arms and legs. His morning walk through the gardens and the occasional horseback ride-with his guards galloping at his side, of course-was all the freedom Bhakir would permit him.
The king's head ached with the tension in his back and shoulders, a constant tautness that would not leave him even in sleep. He tried to force himself to relax, but could not. He was not yet comfortable with his adult-sized body and did not know all its subtle secrets. At fifteen, Castyll had grown nearly a foot in the last year alone and had already attained six feet. He would grow more, he knew; Shahil had been a big man, and there was every indication that Castyll would follow in his footsteps. He was thin still, though, thin as a racing dog, and his guards outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Besides, they were armed. Castyll had been taught a healthy respect for weapons and was not about to force a confrontation.
He had come to the culinary herb section of the garden, one of his favorite spots. Seacliff's garden, a modest name for an area that encompassed several dozen acres, was an elaborate creation. It was precise and ordered, with each section clearly defined either by a low stone wall or carefully cut shrubbery. There were several sections-culinary herbs; medicinal and magical herbs; herbs grown solely for their dried fragrances; small flowers; climbing flowers; fruit trees; and flowering trees. Each of Verold's gods had his or her own small statue, and there were gorgeous topiaries, sundials, and stone benches scattered throughout.
Castyll had had herbalism taught to him as part of his magical training — training for a gift that, he was certain, would never come. All the other Mharian kings who possessed the talent had shown it at their Testing, undertaken at age three. Castyll hadn't had the ability then, and had never manifested it since. Still, Shahil was nothing if not optimistic. He had ordered Jemma, current royal herbalist and former Blesser of the goddess Health, to instruct Castyll in the meanings of the herbs harvested at Seacliff.
Now Castyll, bereft of both father and tutor, knelt alone in the garden and reached for a sprig of mint on which to chew. He hadn't seen Jemma since Shahil's death. He hoped the old woman had come to no harm; probably she, like everyone else with whom Castyll was close, had been ordered to keep her distance. Early on, in the chaos that had surrounded Shahil's death, Castyll had been able to send and receive messages from those loyal to him, even to and from Byrn. Now, though, he was surrounded by silence as stony as the walls that encased him.
The cold freshness of the plant burst in his mouth, and a shade of a smile touched the youth's lips. Jemma had urged him to touch, sniff, and taste everything in the culinary herb garden as he listened to "the lore of the plants." Such experimentation had encouraged learning in a child more efficiently than the normal adult response-"don't touch." Oh, Jemma, he thought, if only things were as they had always been, and you were here, telling me that basil means love, and thyme means courage, and…
He frowned slightly. Someone had been in the garden recently, and had damaged some of the herbs. He was about to raise his voice, call his guards' attention to the vandalism simply for something to do, when understanding broke in him with an almost physical shock.
The herbs that had been broken, their leaves plucked off and piled in small heaps around their roots, had not been selected at random. Castyll knelt, reaching for the small leaves of the thyme, forcing himself to move casually although his heart was thudding frantically.
Thyme — courage.
King's Lady-the "royal" plant.
Rosemary-remembrance.
Sage-salvation.
He read the message in his head: Have courage, King, you are not forgotten and you will be saved.
A lump welled in his throat. Jemma had not forsaken him! She was no longer in the honored position of Blesser, true, but she was still a wise and well-respected Healer. That she had the ear of many important people, Castyll knew. He blinked back quick tears and cleared the broken, bruised plants away. Turning his head slowly, the king glanced back at the two men. They were bored and talking casually to one another. Castyll puttering with the plants was something they saw every day.
Castyll closed his eyes and said a prayer to the positive aspect of the fickle god/dess, Hope/Despair. He also silently thanked the bountiful goddess Health, under whose dominion all healing plants came. Then, with apparent randomness, he selected herbs to leave his own message. He hoped that Jemma would be able to decipher the complex message.
He rose, brushing his dirtied hands against his fine linen shirt with the carelessness of his youth, and surveyed his handiwork. Obvious to a searcher; meaningless to one who was merely passing by. His task done, he decided to linger no longer and continued his stroll through the garden. But over the next half hour Castyll saw nothing of the beautifully landscaped trees and. shrubberies. His mind's eye was filled with the small, short, wonderful plants of the herb garden.
At last a slight cough from one of the guards alerted him that it was time for the midday repast. Castyll glanced up at the castle and grimaced inwardly, but went with them obediently enough. Seacliff was perched almost precariously at the top of a winding road. It looked as if it might be vulnerable to a siege, but its builders had been wise, creating dozens of tunnels beneath Seacliff that led to secret exits. Most of them had fallen into disuse in these peaceful times. The castle itself was pretty, almost fragile in appearance from the ocean, built of white stone and adorned with many slender towers. It had been Shahil's and Castyll's favorite of the royal dwellings. Now Castyll wondered if he could ever look upon Seacliff without pain.
Bhakir insisted that the king take his meals with him in the formal feast hall. Without colorful decorations and a crowd of revelers, the feast hall seemed to Castyll gloomy and enormous. As he entered, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, dried rushes crunched under his booted feet. Torches burned smokily and the windows were open. Bhakir, still hypocritically clad in the long, flowing robe of sky blue that was worn only by counselors, awaited him at the laden table.
Bhakir did not look like a devious usurper. He looked more like someone's benevolent uncle. He was short and rotund, and his bright brown eyes seemed to always sparkle with laughter. He wore a beard, black and neatly trimmed, as if to compensate for the thinning hairs that barely covered his pate. Like the beautiful carnivorous flowers that were said to bloom in the Elvenlands, Bhakir lured the unwary with that doughy, defenseless exterior and a sweet, seductive laugh that encompassed everyone present. It was only when he had you, thought Castyll with a burst of impotent anger, when you had delicately put your oh-so-fragile insect legs on the shiny surface of the vile creature's mouth, that the teeth would appear. They would crunch down with a suddenness so swift that some were doomed even before they knew the instrument of their betrayal.