Many of these volunteers, thought Deveren Larath to himself with a trace of justifiable pride, were his own thieves. The knowledge pleased him. Those who had intentionally followed the darker paths carved out by Marrika and Freylis had not survived that night. The thieves who remained were more inclined to listen to Deveren's ideas, to be aware of something a little larger than their own needs. Deveren's dream of honor among thieves seemed to be coming true, after all.
He lay back in the cooling grass, staring up at the blue sky. The wind, today, was kind, and there were no solemn reminders of the disaster visible at present. The only clouds were large, fluffy ones; natural and harmless. On a whim, Deveren plucked a sprig of grass and chewed on it, as he had when he was a youth.
He'd been surprised to learn that it was largely Castyll's doing that had thwarted the attack on Braedon. Damir admitted to helping, but would not say exactly how. "I must have some secrets, even from my brother," he quipped. But Castyll in private had later confided to Deveren that Damir had friends in the ocean's depths, who had come and given their aid in a most marvelous fashion.
Deveren liked Castyll, who for the time being was an honored guest in Lord Larath's modest home. He was young, yes, and oh so terribly earnest. But he was genuine in his love of his people and his fondness for the Byrnians. And he was clearly devoted to Princess Cimarys. There were rumors of a united kingdom—a new country. Deveren idly wondered what the flag would be. Mhar had a lion; Byrn had an eagle. Maybe they'd make a griffin to represent this new realm.
He heard a squeal of laughter, followed by a puppy's yipping bark. His lips smiled around the sprig of grass in his mouth. The laughter of his daughter was the sweetest sound in the world to him now. Allika had wept and readily agreed to an official adoption, and had fallen in love with the little brachet Deveren had bought her to be a new companion in Miss Lally's stead. The child had named the little dog Miss Lally, stating confidently that Miss Lally hadn't ever really died and that she would always be there, guarding Allika.
After what Deveren had experienced on that night of nights a short week ago, he was in no position to argue.
"Liest thou there, thou summer youth, /Contemplating life and truth?" came a voice tremulous with suppressed mirth.
Deveren bolted upright, brushing sheepishly at the weeds in his hair. Grinning, Vervain sank down beside him. She brought her knees up to her chin and hugged them, her eyes shining. Her scarlet garb contrasted vividly with the green grass and blue skies.
"I didn't know you read bad poetry," said Deveren, blushing a little at having been found in such an undignified position. The current trend among those with too much money and time was to idolize the innocent farmer, not taking into account the backbreaking realities of the "simple country life."
Vervain grimaced mockingly. "Some things one just can't avoid," she said with an exaggerated sigh.
Silence stretched between them. Deveren had spoken with Vervain about what he had experienced during his "ride," a feat that many of the local bards had seized upon as perfect ballad material. Deveren had even heard a few, and had begun to fear that he'd be subjected to various versions of Deveren's Ride for the rest of his life. It was all rather embarrassing. He had told Vervain about Kastara's spirit, about Death's manifestation. But he had said nothing about Kastara's words to him—not yet.
To break the uncomfortable silence, Deveren said, "How did you know where to find me?" Vervain smiled gently. "Your brother told me that you come here about this time every day, since Midsummer Night."
"Here" was Kastara's grave. Deveren had never been able to bring himself to visit his dead wife's final resting place before. It had been too painful. Now, Kastara's passing bore no pain at all. He knew she was all right, and hoped that perhaps, when her work for her mistress was done, she might quietly come visit him here, now and again.
He smiled a little. "You must think me a poor father, bringing Allika to play in a place like this."
"Not at all." Imitating him, Vervain lay back in the grass, her arms folded behind her head. "Cemeteries don't have to be frightening. They're very peaceful. Especially when they ring with the laughter of a happy little girl." She turned her head and smiled at him, lifting one hand to shade her eyes from the sun's glare.
Allika scampered up to them at that moment. She was a tiny whirlwind. She paused to briefly kiss Deveren's forehead with a loud smack, repeated the gesture with Vervain, and then ran off again. The fat little puppy at her heels barked and jumped at her as she leaped up into the branches of an old, gnarled tree.
"She keeps begging me to allow her to wear boy's clothes to play in," sighed Deveren. "I may have to surrender." Allika was now hanging from the branches by her knees. The pretty dress Deveren had bought her, covered with dirt and grass stains, flopped over her head.
"Be grateful she's healthy and happy, Deveren. It's what all parents pray for."
Taking a deep breath, Deveren turned to look at her. "When I lost Kastara and our baby, I thought I'd lost everything. I wanted very little else from life but to be a husband and a father. Have you ever longed for a family, Vervain?"
"I am a Blesser. Such is denied to us while we serve the goddess."
Deveren's heart sank. He turned away quickly, fearful that she would see his expression and interpret it correctly. Apparently, though, he was not quick enough.
Vervain sat up, placing a soft hand on his arm. "You, alone of all men in Verold, know what it means to serve Health. You know what a duty it is."
Deveren nodded. He did know, but the knowing did not help ease his growing unhappiness.
"As long as I hear Health calling me to serve her, I am oath-bound to commit myself to no lesser being," the Healer continued. "But," and she squeezed his arm, coaxing him to face her, "there will come a day when the call will not come. And on that day, I will lay aside my scarlet robes of a Blesser and become merely a Healer—a woman free to give her hand where her heart has already gone."
Surprise and pleasure jolted Deveren. He gazed at her, hardly daring to believe his ears. Vervain's smile grew. He was seized with a longing to lean over and kiss her, but hesitated, wondering if such a desire was, at this point in their lives, right or wrong. He remembered their last such encounter and shame flooded him.
"Vervain," he stammered, "when you gave me the tincture ..." He couldn't even say it. She reached up a gentle hand to brush his cheek.
"You succumbed to evil, as I knew you would—as you had to if the cure were to work. That was not the Deveren I love, kissing me. This is."
She leaned forward, pressing her lips, as scarlet and soft as her Blesser's robes, to his. And oh, it was right.
The small gathering at Deveren's that night was not quite merry. Not yet. But it was a celebration, for at dawn the next day the quarantine would be lifted.
Castyll, Damir, Pedric, and Vandaris were in attendance. The feast was too large to feed six people; Deveren had planned it that way. Some of Braedon's hungry would be fed with what Deveren's gathering did not consume.
Deveren didn't do much talking. Instead, he observed. Castyll was fitting more and more into his father's shoes every day. Damir, his task in Braedon completed, would leave with the king to ride to Kasselton early in the morrow. Deveren knew that Damir was more than eager to see his family again. Vandaris had aged, but he was starting to get a little of his humor back, as was Pedric. Both men, young and old, no longer wore solely black clothing, though neither yet sported vibrant colors.
There was only one uncomfortable moment in the meal, when Vandaris, with a strange gleam in his eye, said, "I was talking with young Pedric here about your group—or should I perhaps call him Otter?"
Deveren had just brought a goblet of wine to his lips and almost choked. He forced himself to swallow. "And?" he pressed.
"I was very angry indeed."
Visions of the stocks, or prison, or perhaps the gallows appeared before Deveren's eyes. With a shadow of his old wicked grin
, Pedric said, "Oh, yes. That we would form a hunting group and not invite Vandaris angered our good head councilman considerably."
"And how playful, to use animal names for a hunting party," said Vandaris, draining his own glass. "Perhaps this coming autumn I shall be able to join you in your, er, fox hunting." Slowly, Vandaris winked.
Relief made Deveren weak. He knew the explanation Pedric had offered was utterly false, and he was certain that Vandaris knew it, too. But as long as the head councilman pretended to be satisfied, it was enough for Deveren. He managed a weak smile.
Much later, Vandaris had gone home and the young king had retired. Pedric, Deveren, and Damir sat alone, finishing a bottle of extremely potent and extremely fine Mharian liquor. "I'm going to miss you when you leave tomorrow," Deveren said honestly to his brother. "And I you. We do not often get to see each other. And," he added, "now might be a good time to say farewell to Pedric, too."
Startled, Deveren glanced at Pedric. "You're leaving, too?"
"Guilty as charged," said Pedric, sipping his drink. 'There's little here for me in Braedon, Dev, other than you and the thieves. And that's not quite enough to counter . .. counter the memories. Not yet. Your good brother has offered me a position where I can put my skills and talents to good use."
"A position?" Both Pedric and Damir stared at him. Deveren waved his hand. "Oh. One of those positions. I'm sure you'll be very useful to my brother, Pedric." He frowned into his glass, then made up his mind. "I hadn't wanted to tell you this, not yet. But since you're leaving . . ."
He drained his glass to work up the nerve, then began. "I told you about that night... about almost being killed by the thieves."
Pedric nodded, his brow furrowed. "Go on."
"Well, you saw enough that night to believe in miracles, I think. We all did. I.. . because I had been blessed by Health, I had the gift to see ... ghosts."
He met Pedric's eyes. The young man stiffened. "Lady Death came that night. It seems the Blessers were right, much as we scoffed at them. I saw the dead come and take the souls of the dying. I saw Kastara, Pedric ... and I saw Lorinda."
Pedric's breath caught. His hand tightened on the goblet, shattered the fragile glass. Red blood mixed with red alcohol but Pedric didn't even notice.
"You're lying," whispered Pedric.
Deveren's eyes were sad, compassionate. "I'm not," he said quietly in a voice so sincere it could not be doubted.
"Why you?" cried Pedric. "Damn it, why did you get to see Kastara and I couldn't see Lorinda? Just see her for a moment, to know she was all right... !"
"Well," stammered Deveren, recalling the chaos that had swirled around him that night, "she was very busy at the time."
Horrified, he clapped his hand over his mouth. He'd been a little the worse —or better—for the alcohol and the words had just slipped out. They were true, as far as they went, but so flip, so thoughtless ...!
"Pedric, I'm sorry, I..."
The young man buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. Deveren, stabbed with a thousand knives of remorse, rose and went to his friend, meaning to comfort. Then Pedric turned his handsome face up to Deveren's. Deveren realized with a jolt that the young man was not sobbing— he was laughing!
Then Damir began to chuckle. Finally Deveren, too, relaxed into laughter. "Oh, Dev," sighed Pedric at last, knuckling tears of mingled mirth and pain from his eyes, "I imagine she was busy indeed." He sighed heavily and wrapped a linen napkin over his bleeding hand. "I'll miss her till the day I die. Oh, I'll be all right. But she was beautiful, and wise, and kind, and I'll always regret not being able to have her in my life." He turned to his friend and said sincerely, "I'm glad you saw her. I wish it could have been me, but. . . I'm glad to know that there's more to death, after all, then rotting in the earth somewhere."
He rose. "I'll take the napkin, if I may. Sorry about your goblet, Dev."
Deveren saw him to the door. For a moment they stood, then wordlessly reached and embraced each other. Pedric grinned, looking almost like his old self again, punched Deveren playfully in the shoulder, then left. Deveren's heart lifted as the sound of Pedric's whistling reached his ears.
He closed the door. "You've got a good man there, Damir," he said to his brother. "I hope you take care of him. Don't let him run any unnecessary risks."
"Risk is always necessary in that job," replied Damir. "But not in other governmental positions. Deveren, let me ask you something. During this whole dreadful affair, you behaved magnificently. You covered my absence perfectly—"
"—at the cost of an innocent life. I don't call that perfect."
Damir sobered. "I understand, and I share your regret. But you saved my life by doing so. And therefore, Castyll's life was saved. And then, you gave the great gift of healing to hundreds on a night when most men ran screaming through the streets. You've done your kingdom a service beyond belief, my brother. When Byrn and Mhar unite, King Castyll will have need of such a subject. You'd make a fine diplomat."
Deveren shook his head. He thought of Allika, asleep upstairs; of Vervain, warm and soft against him earlier that afternoon. He thought of the kindness in the faces of his thieves, of the things they could do for themselves and the city.
"No, brother. I thank you, but I'm a thief, not a king's man."
Damir chuckled. "Say what you will, Dev. But for a brief time, you were both.”
Excerpt from Instrument of Fate
PROLOGUE
They had not spoken for over an hour, the large, strong wizard and the slim, elegant bard, and the silence lay heavily between them. Calleo paced back and forth, his human heritage of emotion revealing itself in every line of his ample body. His big hands clenched and unclenched, and he occasionally rubbed one palm across his bald pate, as if to smooth down hair that had not been there for decades.
Jencir permitted himself a touch of quiet humor. "Careful, Master Calleo," he warned. "You might rub away what little is left."
Calleo glared at the elf. "Curse the day anyone ever introduced elves to humor," he growled without real malice, then continued his pacing.
Jencir smiled, pleased that his teasing had been appreciated, and bent his head over his harp, his own golden hair as thick and full now as it had been for the last six centuries. Slim fingers floated over the strings, coaxing soothing music to fill the tense silence in the room.
The two were waiting for Prince Liandir, who had instructed them to meet him in his private quarters. The room was large and airy. Its floors, ceilings, and walls were made of the beautiful milkwhite quartz that formed the palace, home for centuries to Falarah's ruler, King Cynor, and his family. Liandir's own personal touch was evident in the bright colors of bed linens, draperies, carpets, and tapestries. In addition to exquisite elven carvings, there were also the works of human artisans. A small pool graced with a carved dolphin served as home to water lilies and small, brightly hued fish. The large window was open, and an early summer breeze made the sapphire-and-silver drapes swell and billow. The room accurately reflected its tenant—a mixture of old and new, human and elven, inanimate art and life's own works of beauty.
Lovely as his surroundings were, and soothing as the music he produced might be, Jencir's thoughts were with Prince Liandir. Away from the secluded peace of his private chambers, the youthful prince of Falarah now sat at King Cynor's side at the Council of Elvenkind. Under debate was what was pallidly called 'The Human Question," dealing with the mortal country of Byrn, just across the Falaran border. There would be no shouting, no name-calling, no half- or completely drawn weapons, things Jencir might have reason to expect had the meeting consisted of volatile humans. No, the elves, by their very nature rarely able to feel deep emotions, would simply talk.
Some wished to close the borders, have no further contact with humans. Others, like Liandir and Jencir, had learned to appreciate and enjoy mortals. Still others wanted extreme measures, to halt what they regarded as "contamination." If the extremists c
arried the vote, Jencir wondered, would he and his friends—human and elf, prince and minstrel and Court Wizard—pay the price? They had reached past their own deep-bred prejudices, but clearly others could not—or would not.
Jencir's sharp features saddened, the music he played shifting to a minor key.
Falarah was the most populous of the four elvenlands. Liandir's father, King Cynor, was among the oldest and most respected rulers. When, two centuries ago, the elven goddess known as The Lady had reduced the mountains between Byrn and Falarah to mere foothills, the Falarans knew that Her desire was for peace, not war. It was simple, logical, obvious; so obvious that Lord Cynor betrothed his daughter Ariel to the human prince Tach. Though Tach had died long ago, Ariel yet lived in her husband's country, the honored Queen-mother of Byrn, she and her part-elven descendants a living tribute to interracial peace.
The Falarans were proud of her, of the elven blood that mingled with human in Byrn. Others, including King Kertu of Sali, found such a union obscene.
"If you ask me," said Calleo, though no one had, "King Kertu and the Sa elves shouldn't have any say in what to do about the border. It's Falarah's border, not Sali's."
'Theoretically, you are correct. But the elves have thought and moved as one for millennia. Two centuries of contact with humans is not likely to change that."
The door opened, and Prince Liandir entered. Jencir leapt to his feet, and Calleo stopped in midstride. Liandir closed the door behind him and did not speak for a moment, but his expression told his friends what had happened.
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