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.
He barely looked up when the door slammed open, but he heard the shocked cry of Pedric. "Deveren, your hands!"
Deveren couldn't take the time to explain. He assessed the situation at a glance and sprang forward. His radiant hands reached, not to hurt, but to heal, and he touched Vandaris's broad chest.
Light flooded from him into the dark corners of Vandaris's corrupted spirit, gently chasing away the demons that lurked as a child might brush away a fluffy bit of milkweed. There was nothing that could harm Deveren when he ventured into the dark places tonight, and it was with real joy that he reached for and grasped Vandaris's evil and shaped it into light.
Heal. Be warm. Be comforted.
His strong fingers, glowing with an unearthly radiance, turned sorrow into joy, pain into pleasure. And it gave Deveren joy in the doing as well. He touched something in Vandaris's mind that was still crouching, whimpering, like an injured beast. Tears stung Deveren's eyes as he realized it was the old man's love for his daughter. Deveren longed to touch it, heal that wound as well, but something wise beyond his ken whispered that such was not for him. Vandaris would need to heal himself of that particular pain.
Gently, reluctantly almost, Deveren withdrew. He rocked back on his heels, as full of energy now as when he had begun. Vandaris gazed up at him.
The whole encounter had taken only a few seconds.
"Good gods, what did you do?" whispered Pedric, his eyes glued to Deveren's still-glowing hands.
"A gift from our Lady Health herself," said Deveren with quiet reverence. "For tonight, I am as she is. I can Heal." His eyes met Pedric's and he smiled. Gently he brushed his fingers across the younger man's furrowed brow, erasing the pain and fear and exhaustion. He moved toward Griel— Rabbit—who only now was beginning to recover from the kick Vandaris had dealt him, and took away his pain as well.
The three men stared at him, and Deveren began to grow uncomfortable. "It's still me," he said, almost defensively.
"Are you sure?" quavered Rabbit.
Deveren rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Last time I looked, it was. Now listen, you three. You are now immune to the curse's effect. Rabbit, go to Vervain. With your knowledge of herbs, you can probably be a great help to her in creating more of the tincture. Otter, I've got about fourteen more bottles in the pack on Flamedancer. You and Vandaris have to split them. You go and find the rest of our people and make sure they take the doses."
"But Dev—it's because of them that this damn curse is even here!" protested Pedric.
Deveren didn't waver. "You weren't part of that. Rabbit isn't part of that. I think you know who we can trust, Pedric. Find them; heal them. When they're cured, send them to the temple of Health. They in turn can distribute the tincture. Vandaris, you need to find Telian Jaranis, the rest of the council—anyone in law enforcement. We need those people on our side. Vervain will be working through the night, making more of the stuff. Any questions?"
"Yes," said Vandaris, his gray brows drawing together. "Why do you refer to 'our people' and call Griel and Pedric by animal names?"
Deveren's mouth went dry. "Urn ... it's nothing, really. Private nicknames."
"You don't lie very well, Lord Larath," replied the Head Councilman coolly.
"It doesn't matter!" Deveren exploded. "Good gods, the world is going mad out there!"
"You are right," conceded Vandaris. "Now is not the time. But Deveren, I'm starting to put a few things together. We'll have to have a long talk about this when all this chaos is over." "If you and I are alive by dawn," agreed Deveren grimly, "then we'll talk. In the meantime, gentlemen, the people of Braedon need our help."
The four men hurried out of Rabbit's shop to their various tasks. Deveren paused, pressed a hand to his mount's head. The gelding snorted, suddenly full of energy. Flamedancer would be able to go at full speed for the rest of the night.
He swung himself into the saddle and glanced around, heartsick. The crowds had been here earlier. Doors were broken. Filth had been written on walls. Most of the shops had been robbed, and sometimes the shopkeepers had not escaped with their lives. The smell of fire was in the air along with the tang of the salt sea, and a dim orange glow in the distance had nothing to do with a setting sun.
He glanced down at his hands, and his heart lifted slightly. With a single touch, he could bring healing and sanity to the cursed of this town he so loved. With only the gentlest of squeezes, Flamedancer leaped forward.
Later, ballads would be written about the deed, of how one man, blessed by a goddess, had ridden through the longest night in Braedon's history. Deveren would be lifted to the ranks of hero. Long after he had turned to dust, his name would echo in taverns a
nd feast halls, by firesides and on the road. But as he thundered through streets lit only by fires and moonlight, reaching down to grasp a hand curled into a fist, touch a brow streaming with sweat and blood, Deveren Larath's thoughts were not of future glory and immortalization in song. He did not think of the dozens, perhaps hundreds of people whom he would, by the grace of Health, pull back from the edge of madness tonight. It was each individual that mattered, each touch that counted.
His thoughts were firmly in the present, rooted in each minute as if it were the last he would live. He felt as though he memorized every face whose expression went from hate to compassion, from confusion to clarity. In the space of a few seconds, he knew them all, and he brought hope where there was none.
And he would later count it a mercy that, as he raced through the night on a fire-hued horse, he did not know that the Mharian and pirate fleet was sailing into the Braedon harbor.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
One foe of yours is human.
One foe of yours is not.
And everyone you love most dear
In their dark web is caught:
Your brother fights for freedom.
At perhaps a bloody cost,
But it's here in these dark streets tonight,
That the war is won or lost.
-First verse, Byrnian ballad, Deveren's Ride
The night wore on, and, for the first time since Vervain's touch had enabled him to be a vessel for Health, Deveren began to despair.
Gods, there were so many of them. So very many. He could not possibly reach all of them tonight. Though he felt no physical exhaustion, his initial joy was tempered by simple fact. Many had tried to take Flamedancer from him; he had always been able to make physical contact with the would-be horse thief before it was too, late, but each time it startled him.
He had worked his way through the merchant's area and was braving the throngs clustered around the square when the attack came. Deveren knew, even as the figure came crashing down on him, dragging him off a terrified Flamedancer, that he ought to have been expecting this. He hit the street hard, and heard Flamedancer neighing frantically. He opened his mouth to scream at the horse, send it away from these insane people who would do him harm, but a fist landed in his mouth.
Automatically, Deveren clamped both hands around his attacker's wrist—and stared right into the furious face of Freylis.
His healing touch had no effect, and Deveren realized with horror that it was because Freylis was not contaminated with the curse. He was at this moment, and always had been, a simple, angry, dangerous brute, and no Healer, not even the divine one, could remedy that.
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 b
ed 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.
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