A red fox was running swiftly, but not in fear. Its brush was full and proud and its — his — movements strong and bold. A bird — blackbird? Raven? Crow? Hard to tell — dove at the running fox. Now the images blurred. A squirrel, small but full of chatter, scolded from a tree; a rat poked its nose up from its hole -
— The image was swallowed by utter darkness. Then Vervain was walking in the Prayer Room, kneeling before the stone statue of Health, beseeching her aid. Without warning, the plain but friendly features of the goddess contorted, as if the divine being were in terrible agony. Tears of blood streamed down Health's face, and the stone head toppled to the floor -
Vervain blinked. She clutched the empty goblet so hard that her hands ached and her face was dewed with sweat. She had no idea what any of the symbols meant, but if Jemma had been right, the fear they had caused her sleeping self meant that they did not bode well at all.
She sighed, steadying herself. Putting the goblet down on the stone floor, she swung her long legs out from under the covers. Naked, she walked over to a table and poured water in a basin. Vervain splashed her face, and the calming, chamomile-scented liquid drove the last residue of terror from her mind. She reached for a cake of soap and a sponge. Though dawn was several hours away, Vervain knew that she had a difficult task ahead of her, and time was running out. There would be no more sleep for her tonight.
Her face set in an unaccustomed grimness, she unbraided her long, thick, brown hair and began to brush it out. I only wish, she thought wryly, that I knew what it was I was supposed to be preparing for. As she brushed, she heard the Godstower bell ring for Vengeance's service.
Freylis's snoring sounded like the growl of a mountain cat, and Marrika bit down hard on an urge to kick the loud sleeper in a delicate area. At last, she wriggled free of the stain-stiff bedding, smelling Freylis's scent on her like a noxious second skin. At least Pedric bathed every day, she thought sourly as she reached for her clothes.
Pedric. The one man she had misjudged in her entire life. Not only had he refused to be upset when she left him, he had taken up with a lady of manners very shortly thereafter. And not just a lady, but the daughter of the Head Councilman! Marrika snorted in disgust, and froze as the sound quieted Freylis for an instant. If he awoke, he'd want her back in bed beside him. And that, Marrika knew, meant another unpleasant bout of sexual activity. The big thief mumbled something, rolled over on his back, and resumed his deafening rumble.
Marrika breathed freely again. Freylis was usually a deep sleeper. Heavy drinking tended to assure that particular habit. Her plan to seduce Freylis and thus avail herself of his rather impressive group of hangers-on was working perfectly, except that she found herself disliking more and more to have to pay the necessary price for such a position. For the last couple of nights, when she was certain Freylis would not awaken, Marrika had taken to slipping off and wandering by herself at night.
She finished tugging on her calf-high, well-worn leather boots, tucked her oversized shirt into tight-fitting black trousers, and walked quietly toward the paneless window. She glanced back at the bed, at the lump that was her present lover, and her gaze swept the small room with intense dislike. Marrika knew better than to expect any thief's dwelling-again, except of course for Pedric's-to be beautiful, or even large. She did, though, wish that Freylis's room wasn't quite so… filthy. The sweaty clothes could almost stand by themselves. Freylis would eat off crusted, day-old food rather than clean his dishes, and the chamber pot hadn't been emptied for several days.
She hesitated just long enough to retrieve her leather-covered grappling hook, and stepped boldly onto the window sill. She sat, swung her lithe torso around, and began to ease herself down. Freylis lived in the small room above a candle maker's shop. It wasn't too far off the ground, only a single story, and Marrika had no trouble negotiating toeholds until she could drop safely, silently, to the ground. When her solitary walk was completed, she would return the way she had come with the help of her grappling hook. Such entrances and exits were familiar to Marrika, whose specialty was climbing into the rooms of unsuspecting second-story residents.
Her feet landed with a soft crunch on the gravelly stone. Once down, she crouched, tense, her back flat on the wall until she was confident she had not been observed. She dropped the hook into the sack she had made for it and tied it securely to her belt. Then, tossing her mane of curly black hair out of her eyes, she strolled into the darkness.
Marrika never had a destination on these late-night treks. Her only desire was to steal a few hours to herself, a few precious moments when she wasn't "Freylis's woman." Tonight Marrika's aimless wandering brought her to the center of the sleeping town. The temples were closed and dark at this hour, save for the ever-present illumination that spilled from Light's temple and the two lamps that flanked the Godstower.
A movement in the darkness caught her eye, and she tensed, hand on her dagger. But the shape scurrying across the cobblestones, the lantern it carried bobbing as it went, showed no interest in Marrika. It scuttled to the Godstower and was swallowed by shadow. A moment later, the deep, resonant tolling of the bell echoed through the square.
It took Marrika a moment to recall whose time of day it was. Her eyes widened as she remembered, and a slow smile spread across her lips. She sheathed her knife and walked, hips swaying deliberately, over to the Godstower.
When the man emerged, she stepped out of the shadows. "Greetings, Blesser of Vengeance." The little man gasped aloud. Then, his voice trembling, he replied, "And unto you, my good lady. Are you coming to the service, then?"
"Indeed I am, Blesser." She kept her voice soft, pleasantly modulated, as she sized up the Blesser of one of humankind's most feared gods. He wore the robes of his brotherhood, black cloth that almost enveloped him. The moon shining down on his face gave her a good view of his countenance. He was small and slight, a young man to have such sunken, angular features. She couldn't see his eyes clearly, but knew they darted about because the moonlight glittered as they moved.
He's nervous, she thought. Good.
Marrika followed him silently as he hastened back to the shelter of his god's temple. It was a moderate-sized, low stone building, void of the ornate decorations that often adorned other holy houses. Within, the Holy House was dark, and as the Blesser pulled open the massive door, the blackness seemed almost palpable. But Marrika was not afraid. Unlike most of the citizenry of Braedon, she regarded the cloak of darkness as her favorite garment.
The Blesser entered, fussing about as he lit the few torches that provided illumination. The flickering lights seemed to actively struggle with the shadows, which retreated but did not flee. The floor was hard-packed earth. A circle was drawn in the center, made, if Marrika remembered correctly, from the ground bones of Vengeance's animal sacrifices. It was not a complete enclosure, however. The circle would be sealed later, as part of the ceremony. Inside the sacred ring was Vengeance's altar. Marrika couldn't quite identify the items on the altar this far away from them, but could make a good guess as to what they might be.
There were no windows at all.
The Blesser followed her gaze to the altar and started abruptly.
"My apologies," he said, "but I… I truthfully wasn't expecting anyone to attend tonight. It's not one of the High Holy Days, you see, and… well…"
"Vengeance is not honored as he was in earlier times, is he, Blesser?" Marrika's voice was cool, and her dark gaze pierced him. He stared back, like a rabbit caught by a snake.
"No, lady. Sadly, he is not."
"That is a loss to Braedon, not to Vengeance."
The little priest flushed with pleasure, his eyes glowing. "You understand," he breathed. "Have you come to be taught, my dear?" The thought made him breathe harder, and he clutched the folds of his simple black robe so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
Marrika was on her guard at once, although she still felt in control of the game. Should this little man, in the g
rip of either religious or physical fervor, try to overwhelm her, he would not enjoy the welcome he received.
"Regretfully, no, Blesser," she said softly. "But I am looking forward to the ritual."
"Then by all means, let us proceed!" He turned and went back to the still open door, peering first right, then left. Grunting with the effort, he pulled the door to. "It would seem that you are the only one attending the service tonight, lady. I will be able to grant you my full attention." The words were calm, assured, but the quiver in the man's voice and his rapid breathing betrayed him. He stepped closer, his hands nervously playing with the tassels on his belt.
He indicated the circle. "If you would enter, we may begin." The ritual words seemed to calm him, and some of his high-strung mannerisms began to abate. He stood straighter, though he was still not as tall as his lone parishioner.
Nodding, Marrika stepped into the center of the circle. She could go through the motions well enough, and feigning devotion to a god was more to her liking than soiling sheets with Freylis. She sat down cross-legged on the hard-packed earth and gazed up at the Blesser, waiting.
He followed, moving with surety now. From a pouch that hung at his waist he withdrew a handful of white powder. Muttering words that Marrika could barely hear and could certainly not understand, he sprinkled the ground bone on the earth, closing the circle.
The temperature within the sacred ring plummeted. Marrika inhaled softly, startled. It was like stepping from summer into winter. Fear began to seep through her, ever so subtly. She hadn't bargained on this priest having true power.
For a brief, wild instant, she wondered at the wisdom of the course she had impulsively decided to pursue. Vengeance, like the beautiful Lady Death, was not a deity to be trifled with. But I'm not trifling, she thought, grinding her teeth in an effort to control the trembling engendered by mixed fear and cold. My desire is true — and so is my offering!
And what is that, lady?
Now Marrika did gasp aloud, her gaze flying from the floor to meet that of the Blesser. He was sitting across from her with a slight smile on his unattractive face. The bastard had mind magic! Hard on the heels of her startlement was the realization that the priest's talent didn't run very deep, or else he would have known her true thoughts.
Her eyes searched his face, and she relaxed. He enjoyed catching her off-guard, but he'd exhausted his bag of tricks. Marrika, though, was just beginning.
"Tell me what you want."
He spoke the words aloud. It was a lovely phrase to Marrika, and one she had heard often. Utterly cool, Marrika leaned forward. She emphasized her cleavage as she brought her face close to his.
"I want justice. Vengeance's justice."
"What is the offense?"
"Betrayal of my affections. And the usurping of power by one who does not deserve it."
The Blesser clucked his tongue sympathetically. Marrika could actually see sweat on his pale brow. She dared not let her contempt show. For all his training, all his magic, she still had the upper hand. If she played this right, success would be hers.
"Those are grave offenses indeed. How do you wish them to be punished?"
"Death," answered Marrika swiftly. The man went even paler.
"My dear lady, I cannot ask Vengeance to kill for you! That is Lady Death's domain, and she will not murder at a mortal's whim!"
"I know this is not an ordinary request. Therefore, I do not offer an ordinary sacrifice," said Marrika. She rose and moved purposefully toward the dark-enshrouded altar. She heard the Blesser hastening after her, but did not slow. Marrika stopped within a foot of the altar, looking at it coolly. A knife, encrusted with dark red fluid, lay on a black silk pillow. The corpse of a rabbit, recently killed, to judge by its appearance, was suspended from the ceiling. It dripped blood into a small bowl.
"M-my own offering to Lord Vengeance," stammered the priest. "As I said, I didn't really expect anyone…"
The feeble excuse trailed off. Marrika ignored him, her gaze on the rabbit. It hadn't been quickly and cleanly killed, as was the habit with every other sacrifice she'd seen offered to the god. Its ears, tail, and all four of its small legs had been sliced off and the creature had been permitted to bleed to death. There was blood on the floor a good distance away, mute evidence to its futile struggle.
Two shivers, neither born of the unnatural cold, shook her body. The first was caused by the realization that Vengeance's Blesser here in Braedon was a man who was excited by pain and suffering. The second was due to the understanding that this little, perverted wretch could perhaps give her absolutely everything she wanted.
She turned around. "I understand," she said gently. "Vengeance does not demand just the blood of his victims. He wants their pain as a sacrifice, too."
"When I was a young Tender, they thought I was wrong," the man said softly. "They didn't see — they didn't understand. But you understand. You must have been sent by Vengeance to me, to show that he approves of my worship of him!"
"Perhaps," Marrika agreed cautiously. "I believe we two think along the same lines, Blesser…?" "Kannil," he said. "And your name, O favored one?"
"Marrika. And as I have said, I offer no ordinary sacrifice for my favor. I will bring you… a human sacrifice, Kannil."
The excited color drained from Blesser Kannil's face. "There has been no human sacrifice in Vengeance's temple for… for decades, centuries!" Mixed fear and anticipation was in his voice. "I, I cannot… the laws of Byrn… it would be murder!"
"Exactly," purred Marrika, moving even closer. She couldn't let him turn back now. If he did, well, she would have no compunctions about sending Vengeance an offer of his own Blesser. "No! " wailed Kannil, whirling away from her, his hand outstretched as if to physically keep her back. "I cannot! They would kill me!"
"Only if they knew," persisted Marrika, laying her strong climber's hands on the man's narrow shoulders and turning him around to face her. "And I won't tell. I'm bringing the sacrifice, remember? I'd be just as guilty of murder as you would be!" She had no intention of telling him that she had performed murder many times before in her young life. "I want this. Vengeance wants it, too-you know he does. You hear the call in your sleep every night, don't you?"
Trapped in the snare of her dark gaze, the unfortunate Blesser could only nod.
She'd thought as much. A quick flash of loathing shot through Marrika. She wondered how many of the animals, pet or livestock, that went missing in Braedon had fallen prey to this pathetic, depraved man. She squelched the thought at once. Keeping her voice low and seductive, she murmured, "And I think you want this, too, Kannil. Don't you." It was not phrased as a question, and his answering nod was almost unnecessary.
"When?" he asked, his voice dreamy.
"Soon," Marrika promised. Soon enough to satisfy her anger, and this twisted man's lust for pain.
CHAPTER SIX
And the Dark Knight turned over his cards, but lo, they were not what they had been! And he knew fear such as had not been his to know, as he looked at She who smiled at him and said, "None shall cheat Lady Death."
— from the folktale, Cheating Lady Death
Deveren was in high spirits as he rode Flamedancer into the bustling crowd that glutted the marketplace. At age ten, the gelding was well into his adult years, but he still had the fiery spirit which had inspired the first half of his name.
The wind was coming from the west, bearing with it the strong, familiar scent of fish and seawater. The salty tang of the ocean mixed with the similarly salty but not so pleasant tang of human sweat. Deveren grimaced slightly. Summer was indeed well on its way; he didn't like to imagine what Market Day would smell like two months from now.
From his elevated perch atop his steed's broad back, Deveren had a good view of all the market stalls. He found what he was looking for-a sign that stated "Griel's Apothecary," with smaller letters proclaiming "Herbs, Incense, Teas, Baths, Cures For All Manor of Ailmints." Griel was intelligent,
no doubt, but he couldn't spell worth a copper penny. Smothering a grin, Deveren urged his mount through the pressing crowd of people. The animal, uncomfortable around so many humans, laid his ears back resentfully but complied. The great chestnut horse picked his way through the throng, lifting and placing his powerful hooves down with the surprisingly delicate grace that had earned him the second part of his name.
Deveren dismounted, letting the animal's reins trail in the dust. No one would steal Flamedancer. Deveren was known in these parts, if only as Fox rather than Lord Deveren Larath, and that was enough to ensure the horse's safety. No thief in his group would touch the beast, and they were well aware that they would probably make more money reporting a theft to Deveren rather than aiding a would-be horse stealer. He gave Flamedancer an absent pat on his sweat-darkened neck and went inside the building.
"Good morning, Griel," he called, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He saw the thin, elderly man assisting several customers. Griel turned at the sound of his name, and the expression on his face when he saw Deveren changed from slightly annoyed to apprehensive.
"Oh, good morning, Lord Larath. I'll be with you in a moment, sir." He turned directly back to his customers. "For your son's respiratory problem, I would suggest this tincture of sundew and hyssop. Mix one drop with ten parts water and have him drink it twice a day before he eats. It will ease his breathing." He glanced again at the boy, a thin, wheezing child with large dark eyes. The boy glared back sullenly, his little chest heaving. "Mix it with a little honey," Griel added. The boy brightened a bit.
The mother smiled warmly, fished a few coins out of her pouch and handed them to Griel. The older man's thin fingers closed over the money as he waved his patrons politely toward the door. He shut the door behind them and leaned against it.
"Fox, you know I can't do anything to help you. You must complete the Grand Theft completely without aid from any the rest of us."
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