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.
—Mharian folktale, The Seven Deeds of Parin
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.
He smiled as his fingers left Castyll's temples. "It is there, locked away, as a miser might hoard his treasure. I fear it is far too deeply rooted in your mind for you to locate it on your own. It might take weeks of searching, but I could guide you."
"Will you, Damir? Will you be my tutor?"
Damir chuckled. His face was dim in the starlight. "Let us recapture your kingdom first, Your Majesty. Then we will be free to contemplate tutoring and other such happy activities."
They moved on before dawn of the following morning. Castyll ached from such long hours in the saddle, but reminded himself that had he been forced to walk the distance, he'd have long since been captured.
He had desperately wanted to ride into the capital city openly, with his royal standard snapping in the breeze, waving to the people he was certain were still loyal. Damir had immediately quashed the idea. "Assassins," he had said simply. "The humblest peasant could be one of Bhakir's men in disguise. We will proceed carefully. There is always the chance that my plan might not have worked."
"Do your plans have a history of not working, Damir?"
"Not often."
"They call you the Problem Solver. Did you know that?"
Damir laughed. "So I have heard. Your Majesty."
By the end of that long day, Castyll's royal bottom was aching and his legs screamed for rest. But Jarmair was within sight, and even from this place up in the hills he could see the castle that had been his home since the day he was born.
"Castle Derlian," he said softly. "Oh, Damir. We're almost there."
On Damir's instructions, they waited for full night. Then, after all the men, including Castyll, had armored up and checked their weapons, they rode slowly into the quiet farmlands that surrounded Castle Derlian, keeping well away from the darkened houses. Damir's men closed ranks about the king, while Damir rode, sometimes scouting ahead, sometimes circling behind. Castyll guessed that Byrn's finest ambassador was using his formidable mind magic, trying to sense danger. It was all very reassuring.
At last, they came within sight of the mammoth gates of Castle Derlian. Damir kneed his horse and approached Castyll and the circle of men. "We go no further without reassurance that we're not walking into a trap," he stated bluntly.
"What do you suggest?" queried Castyll.
"We send in a decoy." Damir's bright eyes roamed over the faces of his men, and it was to them that he addressed his next words. "I'll cast an illusion on one of you. You will go forward and demand entrance. You will appear to be the king—alone, unarmed. If they attack the decoy, then the rest of us flee. If they take the false king inside, we wait till we hear a report and if not, then—"
"What?" cried Castyll, aghast. "You'd send a man to walk into a trap?"
"With His Majesty's pardon," spoke up one of the men, "we have all faced death many times before. That is our duty. Any one of us would consider it an honor to die protecting you and obeying our own king's orders."
"No." Castyll shook his dark head. "I won't allow it."
Damir sighed in exasperation. "Majesty—"
"You are under orders to obey me as if I were your own king, yes?" asked Castyll, knowing the answer.
"Aye, but it would behoove you to listen to someone with my experience."
"I have, Damir, and I know you know what you're doing. But —this is my kingship we're talking about. I should be the one walking into a trap, if there is one. Let us compromise. I will agree to send a man up as a decoy. But if they attack him—me—then we fight. And if they want to take him into the castle, we ride up and reveal the deception."
"Your Majesty," replied Damir with more than a touch of exasperation, "what if I'm right and you are walking willingly to your death?"
Castyll weighed his words carefully before he spoke. "It is my firm belief that this castle is manned with people loyal to me. That they have no idea of the evil Bhakir has been perpetrating. If that's true, and if your plan has worked, then we are walking toward the final victory, the restoration of my kingdom. If it's not true—if there is no one inside those stone walls who remains loyal to me— then there is no one within these borders whom I can trust. And the kingdom is lost beyond recapture. The Derlian line will have come to an end, and I will go down fighting to uphold the honor of those who have died before me."
He turned in the saddle to look at the men who had risked so much for him already. "I'm not your king. This is not your fight. If need be I will go forward alone, and take my chances. Come with me of your own will, if you choose. But I will not order you forward, nor will I allow Damir to do so."
Damir frowned terribly. Castyll knew he was angry, but he didn't care. He knew in his heart that was making the right decision.
"Very well," said Damir. "I will go with you, Your Majesty."
"And I," said the man to Damir's right. "And I," said another. In swift succession, Castyll faced six men who had pledged to fight or die with him. Tears stung his eyes; he blinked them away. "We shall not fail," he said.
A few moments later, a man wearing Castyll's body and face ran up the cobblestone road that led to the castle walls. Castyll, safe for the moment in the shadows cast by Damir's magic, marvelled at the depth of the man's skill. The decoy looked exactly like the young king. He appeared to have no armor or weapons, though Castyll knew he was in reality well equipped with both. His heart hammered rapidly
as the false Castyll hammered on the huge wooden doors.
"Who comes?" came the challenge from above.
The decoy tossed back the hood of his cloak, revealing his face plainly in the torchlight.
"It is I, your king!" he cried. Castyll silently shook his head. Damir had even gotten the voice right. "I have escaped and have come to where men are still loyal to me!"
"Majesty! We were told to expect you!"
At once Castyll heard the grinding, mechanical sound of the portcullis being raised. A moment later, the doors of the keep were opened, and "Castyll" was surrounded by men wearing the royal livery who immediately knelt to their liege. There was no attempt to usher the "king" in, either quietly or by force.
Castyll couldn't suppress a smile of triumph as he shot a glance at Damir. The Byrnian's face was inscrutable, but he replied, "It would appear that you were correct, Majesty."
Taking a deep breath, Castyll squeezed his mount forward, riding into sight from the concealing shadows. "Right pleased I am to see that the men of Castle Derlian have not forgotten their liege— even though they have mistaken him!"
The guards, confused, glanced from one "king" to the other. With an unobtrusive wave of his hand, Damir dispelled the illusion.
"A necessary precaution in these troubled times," said Castyll by way of apology, as the man the guards had taken for their king resumed his true appearance. "You were told to expect me. Might I ask by whom?"
"Why, by Lord Maren and Lord Kester. They had word from a source they would not name that all was not well with you and that you had to come by stealth to the castle that is your birthright," replied the man who was clearly in charge of the night's watch. Castyll nodded. Neither Maren nor Kester would have said anything that would have put Adara in any danger. "My lord Maren awaits your appearance in the main hall. He has news for you."
"Then let us not keep my loyal seneschal waiting!" said Castyll. He would have cantered forward eagerly into the courtyard had not the five men who had so carefully guarded him up till this moment closed in around him again. Even now, it would appear, Damir was suspicious. No doubt the diplomat's caution had been wise, but surely there was nothing to fear now. Nonetheless, Castyll did not protest the extra precaution.
Escorted by the castle guards, Castyll, Damir, and the five soldiers rode into the courtyard and dismounted. No sooner had Castyll's booted feet hit the dirt than he once again found himself in the center of the armed Byrnian men. He tried to catch Damir's eye to quietly express his annoyance, but Damir was not paying him any attention. His quick hazel eyes flitted about, searching for any threat to the young king he served.
Most of the castle was asleep at this hour. The tramping of booted feet across the stone floor of Castle Derlian was the only sound. There were no questions for Castyll; nor should there have been. Whatever the soldiers of the keep needed to know, they would be told by their commander. Enough to know that their king had returned, that the seneschal waited for an audience with His Majesty. Castyll's joy grew with every familiar turn, every tapestry, every piece of furniture, every well-known sight and sound of his birthplace.
The guards stopped at the entrance to the main feast hall. Their commander banged on the door and slowly the two massive doors heaved inward. The room was not fully illuminated. The candles on the massive stag-antler chandeliers were not lit, but a few torches burned in their sconces toward the end of the hall. In the dim lighting, much of the place remained shadowed, including the galleries above their heads that would, in happier times, have housed minstrels. The ornate tapestries, twenty in all, that covered the bare stone might have been plain cloth for all the detail the faint lighting revealed. Fat candles glowed on the huge center table that could seat twenty-four. Three others paralleled it, but there was no activity at these tables. At the head of the center table, his head bent over his books, sat Castyll's seneschal, Lord Maren. He glanced up, and a slow smile of delight spread across his face as he rose to greet his liege.
Maren was an old man. He had served Shahil for twenty-odd years, and had not been young when that position had been granted to him. He had a hawk's bill of a nose, watery brown eyes, and several teeth missing. But he stood straight despite the burden of the years that sat upon him, and his mind was as sharp as a knight's blade. Castyll was very fond of Maren, and the sight of him there, waiting patiently, was the final proof the young king needed that all would, finally, be well.
Maren was flanked by two younger men whom Castyll did not recognize, but who wore the traditional mantles of scholars. He assumed they were Maren's scribes.
"My king!" cried Maren, moving from his chair toward the door.
"My old friend," replied Castyll, his voice deepening with warm affection. He shouldered his way past the Byrnian guards and moved forward, his hand reaching out to grasp his seneschal's. From behind, he heard Damir's voice. "Castyll, no! It's a—"
And then Castyll knew what it was. His smile froze on his face like a death's grin as suddenly, from the seemingly empty gallery above their heads, dozens of men sprang to life. They leaped from their places of concealment and leveled crossbows at the small group of men who pressed tighter around Castyll. The Byrnians and Castyll drew their own swords as doors flew open and more armed men charged in. Damir had moved as well, not to draw a weapon, but to begin casting a spell. Quick as lightning, one of the guards had him, yanking the diplomat's arms behind his body and pressing a blade to his throat.
Sweat trickled down Castyll's face as he glanced frantically about, his shocked gaze encountering nothing but hard faces, swords pledged to the use of his enemy. There was no friend among any of the guards that stood here. But there was no attack—not yet. Damir's men shielded Castyll with their bodies and readied swords as the disloyal guards of Castle Derlian waited, drawing out the moment with unbearable tension.
"Maren!" Castyll cried, brokenly. "How could you betray me?"
The old seneschal fixed him with a smile that was not his own, yet somehow familiar. And then, before the young king's horrified, revolted gaze, Maren's features melted, reformed. His slim frame seemed to swell and bloat, and then it was Bhakir standing at the head of the table.
"You tried such an illusion earlier. They work very well, don't they?"
"Bhakir," breathed Castyll. His stomach clenched.
"It is over, little king."
The tense seconds ticked by. "How?" said Castyll at last, furious that his voice broke on the single word.
Bhakir smiled evilly and made a gesture. A guard emerged from a corridor, holding a young woman roughly by the arm.
Castyll's heart sank. It was Adara. She had betrayed them. But then why was she being handled so brusquely? Why was there fear on her plain features? And then, even before Bhakir began to speak, the young king guessed at the truth.
"Castyll, I'm sorry —" Adara began. The guard struck her with his mailed fist as casually as if she were a disobedient hound. Her head jerked to the side with the force of the blow. Castyll instinctively moved toward her. At once there was a clattering sound as every guard in the room moved a step toward him. Two dozen weapons were poised, ready to slay him at a word.
"I had your homely Blesser followed." Castyll closed his eyes in pain. "I presume it was Damir whose clever idea it was to plant a suggestion in her dull little brain. I assumed you were in Braedon, Damir. How thoughtful of you to come to me. It was easy enough to determine what your plans were by whom the Blesser spoke with."
"Maren," Castyll managed. "Kester. You killed them, didn't you, you son of a—"
"Castyll, I am shocked that you would think such a thing." The mock horror in Bhakir's voice was an insult itself. "I'd never risk incurring public outcry like that. No, I merely reassigned them to other stations. Very distant stations, I might add. And sent some of my own men to make sure they stayed in line. And your Blesser—well, if one suggestion worked so well, then it is ease itself to give her another. She'll have no memory of this encount
er by the time I'm done with her."
Unable to help himself, Castyll glanced back at Adara. Tears filled her eyes, ran down her cheeks. She might be the earthly representative of the best-loved deity in Verold, but right now, she was utterly helpless. Just as he was.
"And so, stone by stone, my little king's tower of dreams is toppled." Bhakir's voice was silky. He was enjoying every second of this. Castyll spat. He was too far away to reach anyone, but the gesture made him feel better.
Bhakir's heavy brows narrowed. "You are a foolish hothead, just like your father," he growled. "You murdered him!"
"Aye, I did. And too simple a deed it was. As simple as murdering you right now. You've made it so easy for me, Castyll. By stealing out of the Blesser's temple and conveniently disappearing, you've practically done the deed for me. Almost disappointing, I must say. I was content with things as they were. Content to pull your strings and watch you dance."
Outrage thrummed through the young king's veins. The sticky sweat of anger popped out on his brow, beneath his arms. He had thought he hated Bhakir before, but this—it dimmed his sight and hearing, made his heart swell with an abhorrence and loathing that almost overwhelmed him. Unbeknownst to him, a low growl of sheer white-hot fury began deep in his throat. His world suddenly narrowed to one thing—the image of the fat, hateful man who had deliberately, piece by piece, destroyed Castyll's world.
"But you have forced my hand," Bhakin continued. "Your Blesser's memory will be wiped as clean as the sand when the tide comes in. You will die within moments, by my hand. And don't think I won't relish every second of it. But first," and he smiled, that terrible, falsely jovial, despised smile, "you will watch your friend die before you."
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