He expected the worst when Marrika separated herself from Freylis and walked over to Pedric. The younger man, too, tensed. Marrika was a volatile woman. What was she up to? She glanced over at Deveren, then addressed Pedric. "I'm sorry to hear of your loss," she said. A muscle tightened in Pedric's jaw. "I'm sure you are," he said in a tone that indicated precisely the opposite.
"You don't believe me. I admit I was angry when we parted, but I certainly wouldn't be cruel enough to wish something like this on you." She touched his shoulder gently. "I am sorry," she repeated.
Pedric gazed into her eyes, then smiled slightly. "Thank you," he said. She squeezed his shoulder and walked away, slipping into Freylis's arms for a quick embrace before settling into her usual corner, taking out her carving knife, and beginning to work on a chunk of whalebone.
"Seems we may have judged Raven a touch harshly," said Deveren softly to Pedric. The youth shrugged.
"It doesn't matter. All that matters is finding Lorinda." He took a deep breath, seemed to rouse himself, and asked, "Why didn't you mention the attack on your life? Someone might have come forward with information."
Deveren laughed, a sound that had no humor in it. "With this group — at least the way they are now-that would only be putting ideas in their heads. The ones who tried it will probably try it again. And the ones that didn't might think it would be a grand idea. No, I'll just keep my eyes and ears open."
"And hire a taster."
The breeze was high on HoDesdae, but the weather was otherwise mild. Hair, capes, dresses, and hats were tousled by the wind but all the celebrants were in good humor. After all, today was a citywide holiday in Ilantha.
The death of the former Blesser of Love had been swift and unexpected. She was only in her forties, far too young, one might think, to have had a killing seizure that stopped her heart within minutes. The Healer who had been summoned had been able to do nothing, and she had died, ironically, on Healsdae. Fortunately, the Healer assured the grieving community, the Blesser's death had been quick and painless.
The city was plunged into mourning for a full day. But with the dawning of HoDesdae, mourning was cast aside. It was a new beginning, with a new Blesser of the best-loved goddess in Verold. The revelers who thronged the winding streets of the port city wore their most festive colors; the shopkeepers were quick to come up with items to commemorate the day, and taverns were crowded.
Probably the most pleased celebrant was the young king. He wondered if the gods would be angry at him for being so happy that one of their Blessers had died, but the nature of this ceremony demanded that he be present. And that got him out of Seacliff, and out, for a few brief moments, from under the thumb of Bhakir.
Oh, certainly the guards were still there, but there was at least the illusion of freedom as young King Castyll rode on his fine mount at the side of the youthful Tender. On such occasions, when the king was residing in that particular city, tradition demanded that he be the escort of the Blesser-to-be as he or she rode the "Long Mile" from the Holy House to the center of town. Sometimes it was, of course, longer than a mile; sometimes it was only a few feet. Nobody cared. The Long Mile it was called, and the Long Mile it would remain.
Castyll and his entourage, including Bhakir, had arrived at the door of Love's temple at dawn. A throng of citizens had followed, eager to witness the entire ceremony from beginning to end. Adara, the Tender who had been appointed to succeed the late Blesser, appeared at the door. Castyll, even in the midst of dark thoughts and longing for his freedom, couldn't help but notice how young and vulnerable she looked. She was only fourteen, younger even than he. But like him, Adara carried herself well, and the enormous responsibilities that came hand in hand with being the Blesser of Love in such a large city did not seem to rest awkwardly on her narrow shoulders.
Her hair was braided with wildflowers, and she wore not the light blue robe of a Blesser, but the simple white garment that marked her, for the moment, as a mere Tender. Her feet were bare, used to walking inside the Holy House and through Love's garden without protection.
She was not beautiful, but her smile was. He proffered his arm and Adara took it, letting him escort her to the unsaddled mare which awaited her. She mounted clumsily and her grip on the horse's mane was white-knuckled, but her face betrayed nothing of her fear. Castyll's heart went out to her. She was so young to have had this thrust upon her. But then, so had he been. His sympathy soured into a stab of self-pity as he thought that at least Adara's predecessor had died a natural death. The late Blesser of Love had not been helped along toward her meeting with the Dark Lady by a scheming counselor.
They did not speak overmuch. It would have been hard to chat pleasantly regardless, for the cries of the happy crowd drowned out any but the most full-throated declarations. Castyll tried to reassure the girl with smiles, and Adara returned them nervously.
At last the Long Mile was done. Castyll dismounted easily and reached to help the Tender slide down. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as she dismounted, and he felt her tremble. He squeezed her arm reassuringly, then the two of them, king and the god's earthly representative, walked forward to meet the highest-ranking Blesser of Love in Mhar.
All Blessers had a Protector or Protectress of their order, selected by a council of Blessers chosen at random throughout the whole country. The council traveled through the land, visiting every city, town, every castle and farmstead, meeting all the Blessers and basing their decision on these meetings and on personal testimony. It was as free from political maneuvering as such things could be-which is to say, not quite entirely free. Once chosen, the Protectress would sever all personal ties to her friends, family, and home. She would even be stripped of her name, henceforth be known only by her title. Her duties were many and varied, but the induction of new Blessers certainly was among the happiest.
Mhar's Protectress of Love was rail-thin, but stood straight as the young king, perhaps even straighter. Her long hair, gray as slate, hung unbound, strands dancing in the playful wind, and despite the solemnity of the occasion there was warmth in the old woman's eyes and seamed face. Her garb was a rich, bright blue and she wore a belt of golden chain. Standing beside her was Love's chosen animal-a small, skittish fawn. Encircling the little beast's throat was a golden chain that matched the Protectress's. A Tender not much older than Adara held the nervous creature in check, speaking to it softly and patting its smooth, dappled coat.
"Welcome, Adara, Tender of Love," said the Protectress in a husky voice that nonetheless carried well. "You come before Love's Protectress a girl, but you shall depart a woman."
Castyll watched the initiation along with the others, but his thoughts were not on the sacred rite he witnessed. He was thinking about the speech tucked into his belt; the speech that he was to give to all within earshot after young Adara became a full Blesser; the speech that he, Castyll, had not penned one single word of. Every syllable was Bhakir's, pushing forward the counselor's treasonous plans. In that document was amnesty for pirates, official countenancing of replacing good men with evil. It shook to the foundation everything Shahil had worked for-everything he had hoped that his son would carry on in his stead.
There was another speech — in Castyll's mind. He mentally reviewed it while the young Tender was undressed, bathed, anointed with oils, and reclad in the light blue robe of a fully vested Blesser. Her body was tanned and firm, only just beginning to fill out with womanly curves. There was little salaciousness in observing Adara nude. Everyone present knew that this was a deep ritual, and the majority behaved accordingly. The sight of the young Blesser's body made Castyll think only of Cimarys, and he wondered briefly what the young Princess of Byrn would look like standing naked in the sunshine.
The thought produced an instant physical reaction, and Castyll hastily returned his wandering thoughts to more pressing-even deadly-matters.
It was over. Laughing and crying, the new Blesser embraced the Protectress, then knelt to put he
r arms around the young deer. It bleated in protest and skipped backward, and all assembled laughed. Adara, Blesser of Love, rose and turned to Castyll, her eyes shining, with an odd mixture of pride and apprehension on her plain face.
"King Castyll," she began, stepping forward boldly, as was her right now to do — the Blessers obeyed the king, but being representatives of the gods, walked on almost equal footing with their liege-until she was only a foot or so away from him. "I am now a fully vested Blesser of Love. I invite you, before all assembled, to be the first to come to me to be taught in the ways of Love, so that you might better honor the goddess."
Castyll was momentarily taken aback, but almost at once he realized he should have expected this. Young men, especially the sons of nobles or others of high regard, were sometimes invited to lie with the Blesser of Love their first time. She would teach them how to honor the goddess through the movements of their bodies, in the sacred act of lovemaking. The son of the king certainly would have been asked. Shahil ought to have been the one to escort his son to the temple for this passage into manhood; instead, the boy had become a man not through the passion of a woman, but through the weight of an invisible crown upon his dark head.
But one thing or another had delayed the rite of passage, and now Castyll would go as a man to the temple of Love. Castyll did not for an instant think this was betraying the sincere love he bore Cimarys; and knew that she would not regard it so. The excitement that flooded him at the offer of this very young Blesser of Love was not sexual. Rather, he knew that, for one full night, he would not be under the eye of the guards. And one night would be enough to escape.
He bowed low. "Lady, you honor me. I shall come to Love's temple, and be taught in the ways of love." Adara's face shone with joy, and blushed with nervousness. A huge roar went up from the crowd, for the day that the king rode to Love's temple would be yet another holiday. Ilantha had not recently seen such happy times.
Castyll sobered somewhat as he realized what was next in the ceremony. Now it was time for him to take center stage, to step forward, and spread Bhakir's poison throughout the happy crowd.
He moved toward the raised dias, carrying the rolled-up parchment in his right hand. Then, deliberately, he caught the toes of his right foot behind his left and stumbled forward. To catch himself, the young king flung his arms wide, hurling the vile speech outward. His brief, whispered prayer was answered. The wind, as if it were a live thing sensing a new playpretty, caught the parchment and lifted it up high above the heads of the onlookers.
Feigning distress, Castyll cried, "My speech!" He kept his smile small and secret at the sight of the guards chasing after the dancing parchment as it dipped and skittered just out of their reach. Finally, a stronger gust than the others caught the four pages and bore them up high, till they were lost from sight.
"Oh, no!" cried Castyll in mock horror. "I — well, my people, you will now have the opportunity to see your king speak unrehearsed. I ask your indulgence." He gave a winning smile, and the crowd chuckled appreciatively. Castyll felt Bhakir's gaze boring holes into him, but he did not meet the counselor's eyes. He was doing it. The words he spoke today would be listened to by travelers, who would take the news to their own towns. Many of those here today were sailors; Castyll knew that this speech would reach even Byrn.
"I shall speak, then, from the heart," he began, "which is more appropriate to such an occasion than carefully scripted speeches. Today we are here to celebrate the goddess Love and those who serve her. We all serve her, whenever we think a good thought about our neighbor. We serve when we clothe and feed the poor. We serve when we treat our families with gentle words and a soft hand. And we serve," he said, watching the crowd's reaction intently, "when we take steps towards peaceful relations with other countries."
They were listening. Bhakir's face was outwardly composed, but Castyll knew that the counselor was furious. He continued.
"We have long had good relations with our neighbor to the north, Byrn. Many of us have friends or family there. And trade, particularly between Ilantha and Braedon, has never been better." He smiled, and said in a confiding tone, "I in particular have great need of Love's blessing, for as you all know, I am betrothed to Byrn's princess, the fair Cimarys. And dear Lady Adara, new Blesser, perhaps you will even preside over our vows soon!"
This, as he had hoped, produced an enthusiastic round of applause. Few things pleased the common folk better than tales of young royals in love.
"Therefore, I take this opportunity to officially state that I, and I hope all my people, are at peace with our neighbors. We fear no invasion, no threat to our wives or children. Trade is sound, and all make honest profits. Byrn is not populated with the cold elves, nor the evil Ghil-it is home to people just like us. And on this day of changes, the only change I advocate is that we move forward in the spirit of Love, in the spirit of understanding and harmony. You are my people, and I swear to you now-I shall always strive to protect and nurture you, just as the beloved goddess sustains us with her kindness. Thank you."
The applause was thunderous. Castyll grinned from ear to ear, but the grin faded as the guards and Bhakir swept up to usher him away from the scene of celebration. Bhakir, too, smiled and waved at the throng, but his grin reminded Castyll of the predatory smile of a mountain cat.
"What in the Nightlands were you doing?" growled Bhakir through his grimace of a smile. Castyll feigned innocence. "I lost my speech, you saw what-"
"I saw you drop the speech, you little…" Bhakir composed himself with an effort. The guards now had closed in around the young king, and though he still stood taller than most of them they formed an effective barrier between him and the crowd. "Forgive me, Majesty. I am merely distressed that your… lack of grace at such a crucial moment resulted in such a poor speech. You mentioned none of the things we discussed."
Triumph flared in the youth. Bhakir wasn't ready — yet- to voice his true thoughts in front of the guards. Perhaps some of them were still loyal to the young king, after all. No, he hadn't mentioned the "things we discussed." Not one cursed word. "I'm sorry, Bhakir-I got flustered," Castyll lied. "I tried to think of something appropriate. Something to do with love."
"You said nothing of Lord Zhael's appointment as Commander of the Navy," snapped Bhakir. "Nor did you mention the amnesty we have granted Captain Porbrough and his compatriots. Why didn't you remember to do that when you were speaking so eloquently of love and good relationships? Castyll, this is a seaport. If you don't inform people of changes in the navy immediately, they won't be as quick to accept them!"
Which was, of course, exactly what Castyll wanted. He hung his head, lest Bhakir see the rebellion in the dark Derlian eyes. "I'm sorry. I guess it was because I hadn't done either of those things myself that they just-I don't know- slipped my mind."
Bhakir tensed, and Castyll realized that he had perhaps gone too far. It was a dangerous, delicate game he and Bhakir played with one another. The moment either of them clearly admitted to the other that Castyll was a prisoner, the game would be over. Castyll knew that both stood to lose should that happen. Bhakir would lose an important figurehead, a mouthpiece beyond compare. Castyll was beloved by his people; Bhakir would have a much more difficult time putting his plans into effect without the young king's apparent approval. And Castyll-well, he'd lose what little semblance of freedom he had and, sooner rather than later, he'd lose his life.
His breath caught in his throat. He could not meet Bhakir's eyes.
"Perhaps then, my young majesty," purred Bhakir, "it is time to get you more directly involved."
Inwardly, Castyll shrank back. Bhakir's words were a threat — of closer guard, of harder, more direct manipulation. He began to wonder if, today, all he had done was to delay the inevitable. Suddenly the beauty had gone out of the day, as the young king of Mhar, ostensibly the most powerful man in the land, trudged with his armed escort back toward his prison.
CHAPTER TEN
&nbs
p; But take care when working with old wood, for if you bend it too far, it will break.
— Advice from master carpenter to apprentice
Castle Seacliff had been designed with escape from siege in mind. The space below the castle was riddled with tunnels and little rooms where the royal family could be hidden-and where their enemies could be imprisoned. As he descended into one of these dungeons, Bhakir's refrain was simple: At least the little bastard has no magic.
That thought was the only thing that comforted him after Castyll's outrageous performance earlier in the day. It had looked like an accident, and admittedly Castyll couldn't have counted that the wind would be so anxious to snatch up a royal counselor's speech. But it was just too convenient. Bhakir suspected that if the warm summer zephyr hadn't been so obliging, the boy would have ignored the speech and done exactly what he had ended up doing. He'd have come up with some excuse.
Castyll knew he was a prisoner, or at least suspected as much. Whatever else Shahil might have been, the late king of Mhar had not been stupid. Nor was his son, though Bhakir had hoped that simply because of his youth Castyll might be more pliable.
But today he had seen calculation in the boy's actions. He was starting to push, to test the limits, and soon he would become too hard to control.
Puffing with even the simple exertion of walking downstairs, Bhakir narrowed his eyes. But damn it, he still needed Castyll. The people's reaction to the king's speech today proved that. He'd just have to step up security around the youth, that was all there was to it. After Love's Blesser, ugly little thing, had had her way with him, it would be Castyll whom Bhakir would be visiting now, as well as Jemma. Enough of coddling the boy. Time to put him in the dungeon as the prisoner he was.
"Peace with Byrn," he muttered. "Pieces of Byrn, is more like it." The innocent-sounding speech had set Bhakir back several days. He'd have to contrive another official occasion, where Castyll could actually deliver the prepared speech.
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