King's Man and Thief

by Christie Golden

  The man's tense face relaxed somewhat. "Well," he said, slightly mollified, "I am bound by my oaths to help those who ask for it. Very well. I will be there at sunset. But don't think that false piety will spare the Sword of Vengeance," he added.

  "Of course not," replied Bhakir. "Truly, I would atone for whatever sins I may have committed. May I expect you at sunset?"

  The Blesser's eyes searched Bhakir's face, then he nodded. Bhakir inclined his head, then gently squeezed his mount, continuing the ride. He said nothing to his guards, and after a moment, the one on the right rode ahead while the one on his left slowed, then circled back, per their lord's instructions. The mind-reader kicked his mount and came to ride alongside Bhakir. The counselor remained silent. There was no way of knowing what the Blesser really knew. Not yet.

  But come sunset, Bhakir would have Garith use his "methods of persuasion" on the man. And then, when they had learned all there was to learn, Bhakir would order the Blesser killed. He'd gone too far to let one loose-tongued, arrogant priest ruin it all.

  Alone with her young Tenders, the Blesser of Love brushed out her long hair thoughtfully. Things were very unsettled. Perhaps she needed some advice from another.

  "I think I will go visit Love's Blesser in Jarmair," she said to her Tenders. "Can you ready my things for the trip?"

  Deveren drummed his fingers on the table. He had no interest in the fine food before him, but he absently watched Kyle eat heartily.

  The resemblance truly was uncanny. With the wig, putty nose and other makeup tricks, Kyle was almost a mirror image of Damir. He had most of the gestures down and had captured Damir's precise manner of speaking. If Deveren closed his eyes slightly, it could indeed almost be Damir across from him at the table. Kyle had even managed to fool the servants by keeping out of their way as much as possible. When he did come in contact with them, it was usually only at meals—times when the servants' attention was occupied by the food and the serving of it, not in looking closely at their master's brother.

  The first two public appearances —token things, really— had gone off without a hitch. Fortunately there had been no parties, nothing involving people who knew Damir well and would have a chance to speak with Kyle at length and up close. If only Damir would return in time for the Midsummer Festival, all would be well.

  Traditionally, Braedon's Midsummer Festival was a time of good-natured cheer and banter. Deveren, though, had now been with the thieves long enough to know that it was also a prime opportunity for crime. But even the thieves of Braedon seemed to get into the joyful spirit of things. He knew of no violent crimes that had been perpetrated during the event over the past years. A great many thefts, yes, but no murders or even attacks.

  This year, he mused darkly, staring into his goblet of wine, could well be different. There had been one attempt on his life. There ought to be more. The very lack of a second attempt at murder had Deveren unsettled. There could only be one reason—he was no longer deemed a threat. And that was actually even a more frightening thought. It meant that whoever had tried to kill him now felt it was no longer necessary to remove him—that the would-be killer had found another means to his goal.

  The rat.

  Deveren suppressed a shudder. If one of his thieves was trafficking in that sort of dark magic, then Deveren knew he was right to be afraid.

  Who was it? Freylis? Khem, who had kept to himself and whom Deveren didn't know well? Someone else?

  He took a gulp of the wine. It didn't help.

  "Your pardon, Lord Larath," came the voice of Millia, the cook's young daughter. "But... there's someone come to see you."

  "Who is it?" asked Deveren, tensing.

  The girl frowned. "It's . . . it's a child, sir." Deveren smothered a grin at the slightly superior tone of voice. Millia was a child herself, a mere ten years of age. "She says she comes from the Blesser of Health with news."

  Hope flooded through Deveren. "Very good, Millia. Send her in to the library and I'll speak with her there. No doubt," he added for the benefit of Millia, Kyle, and other ears which might be listening, "she brings a cure for those nasty headaches I've been having."

  A few moments later, Millia showed Allika to the library. It was all Deveren could do not to gape openly at the change wrought by just two days in the Blesser's charge.

  She was clothed in a simple but clean brown dress, probably loaned from one of Vervain's tenders. Her face was clean, showing Deveren for the first time how white and pink her skin was. Her shortcropped black hair had been combed into obedience, and gleamed. On her feet were small brown boots, and her back was straight. Her eyes sparkled with delight and she rushed into Deveren's arms, hugging him.

  "Don't I look pretty?" she crowed immodestly.

  "Little Squirrel, you look beautiful," he told her truthfully, planting a kiss on shiny black hair that smelled of herbs and sunlight.

  She grinned, and it warmed Deveren's heart to see the impish sparkle in her eyes again. He'd feared that her laughter and sense of play had burned to ashes along with her beloved doll, but clearly that was not the case. "Vervain has been taking good care of you."

  "She's nice," agreed Allika readily. "She's tired, though. She stays up late and gets up early. Got black circles round her eyes."

  "I don't doubt it," said Deveren.

  "But she says to tell you that she's got good news. She says," and Allika thought carefully before continuing, "she says, Tell Deveren that I believe I have perfected the tinc— tincture—but I will need to test it on someone. Ask Deveren if he knows of anyone who would be willing to undergo such a test. I don't think it will be harmful, even if it doesn't work.' That's what she said."

  And Deveren was certain it was, word for word. He was silent for a moment, thinking. Allika waited patiently. Deveren again marveled at the sight of her, remembering the angry, violent, squalling creature he had lugged by sheer physical force to the Healer's temple; recalled her rage, her pain when she tried to apologize—

  Suddenly Deveren's thoughts flashed back to that dreadful day of Lorinda's funeral. He saw again Pedric standing in front of him, screaming angrily, froth on his lips and hate in his eyes. The poisonous, cruel words sounded again in his ears.

  To the Nightlands with Lorinda! She's dead, Deveren, dead, and the dead are nothing but dirt. There's no purity in rot. Gods, Dev, couldn't you smell her as we brought the coffin by? . .. There's nothing left of her now but decaying flesh ... and the hope that I can somehow do to her killers what they did to her. So you can just take your wine and your talk and leave me alone!

  He remembered with growing horror how Pedric had at first gentled at Deveren's sympathy, then doubled over in pain to emerge twice as bitter. And he remembered the youth fidgeting and scratching ...

  Deveren had been blinded by the memory of his own aching loss. He had thought Pedric merely suffering from grief and the natural anger at the violent crime. Now he realized that something far darker and dreadfully unnatural had been at work.

  "Dear gods," he said softly. Poor Pedric ...

  "What?" asked Allika anxiously.

  "Nothing you need to worry about, sweeting. Go back to Vervain and tell her I will be there tonight with . . . with someone to test her tincture."

  It was with a lie that Deveren coaxed Pedric into the streets and out of his drunken isolation. A lie that Pedric believed because he wanted to believe it; believed because the curse that raged through him believed that everyone was as filled with hatred as he was.

  I know who murdered Lorinda. I know where we can find them. And I will help you kill them. A feral light had come into Pedric's aged-looking, unshaved face; illuminated his haunted eyes, red-rimmed with drink and sleepless nights.

  Yes, he had answered. Let us kill them. Words that Deveren had never thought to hear emerge from Pedric's cultured throat. And off they had gone, into the quiet darkness of the night. Pedric had laughed wildly, eager for blood and revenge. It was only the knowledge that Pedri
c was not truly responsible for his thoughts and actions that kept Deveren's heart from breaking for his friend.

  They made their way through the city, and Pedric slowed as Deveren led him to the temple of Health. He stopped in front of the little gate and turned to stare suspiciously at Deveren. "At Health's temple?" he asked, incredulous.

  Please let this work, Deveren said to himself. Aloud, he said, "They are injured. They will be easy prey." He stretched his mouth into a smile. "We can subdue them with our bare hands."

  That temptation proved to be too much for Pedric. He smiled himself, and inwardly Deveren drew back from the simple evil in that smile. How close we all are to evil, he thought. How terribly, dreadfully close. "Come," he said, inviting Pedric to go in front of him.

  He waited until Pedric had opened the door to the temple proper before bringing his hands down hard on the back of the young man's head. Pedric groaned and fell forward.

  At once Vervain was there with a light. "Get him on the table!" she cried.

  Pedric was not unconscious, and fought as Deveren tried to shove him onto the table. Again Deveren dealt him a hard blow, this time to the temple. The younger man stumbled and Deveren managed to get him onto the table. "Hurry!" he called to Vervain. "I won't be able to hold him!"

  Swiftly, efficiently, Vervain was there. Deveren crawled onto the table himself, trying to pin the writhing young man down with legs, arms, elbows, anything that would work. The heel of Pedric's hand came up and smashed Deveren in the mouth. Deveren tasted blood, but did not loose his grip. Vervain poured a swallow of her herbal tincture into Pedric's snarling mouth, saying as she did so, "Take care, Deveren! It will make him worse before it makes him well!"

  What was she talking about? Deveren thought wildly.

  Pedric gulped, choked, coughed, finally swallowed. Like the shadow of a hawk falling across a frozen, terrified hare, Deveren saw something dark pass across Pedric's fine features. His eyes seemed almost to be glowing with evil, and Deveren wildly recalled Allika's comments about the rat's red eyes. With a bellow, Pedric got his arms free and clamped his hands about Deveren's neck. Deveren's eyes flew wide and his own hands reached to his throat, trying to pry loose powerful fingers that were slowly squeezing the life out of him.

  Pedric's mouth was open, spewing obscenities. Vervain maneuvered about the struggling men and managed to slosh another mouthful into the wild younger man.

  The pressure about Deveren's throat suddenly disappeared. Coughing and gagging, Deveren lurched backward, almost falling off the table. He breathed in great gulps of sweet air, massaging his bruised neck and gazing at Pedric.

  The young nobleman was pale and sweating. His chest rose and fell as he himself sought air. But, thank the gods, that dreadful crimson glare was gone from his eyes, and his face had lost its unnatural tension. Already the grim lines of hate and anger were fading.

  "Dev," he said slowly, "Dev ... I tried to kill you."

  Hoarsely, Deveren replied, still rubbing his aching throat, "And you damn near succeeded."

  Confused, Pedric blinked, looking about stupidly. 'There were people—Deveren, you were taking me to murder someone! What in the Nightlands—"

  "Not the Nightlands," interrupted Vervain smoothly, handing steaming mugs of fragrant liquid to both men. "Something all the darker for it happening right here. Drink this. It will calm you."

  As he sipped the hot herbal tea, Deveren silently marveled at the cool strength of the woman. She seemed completely unruffled by what had transpired. As he drank, she glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. He indicated that she might proceed. His throat hurt too much for him to talk right now.

  As Pedric and Deveren sat quietly, Vervain explained what she and Deveren had discovered about the curse. Pedric's eyes grew wider and sadder. When the Healer had finished, he glanced over at Deveren, looking like a whipped cur.

  "I'm sorry I said what I did... at the funeral."

  "I thought you were merely grieving. I knew what you were going through—or, at least, I thought I did," said Deveren. His voice was back to normal, thanks to Vervain's tea. "Oh, I hurt," said Pedric, his face grim. "I still ache for her. And if I ever did find the murderers, I'm not sure what I'd do. But to say those things to you—and attack you ... !"

  Deveren waved it aside. "Let's just say you weren't your normal self."

  Pedric smiled a little—a very little—at that. Then the smile faded. "But if what you say is true ... then nearly everyone in Braedon must be affected by now."

  The Healer nodded grimly. She was in full vestments. The red wimple hid her glorious brown hair. The open, friendly woman Deveren had seen with Allika a few nights ago was hidden by weariness and calm efficiency. "The tincture worked, but it will be tricky to apply. Do you remember what I said to you when I healed Allika, Deveren? That she first had to surrender, be made completely evil, before she could be restored?"

  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.