Sounds were emitted; images returned. Broken shards of wood that had once been mighty seagoing vessels, washed up on the sands and in the shallow waters. Fish, and bits of floating items that Darshirin knew as human refuse, coming in from the sewer systems. He was not concerned. The ocean was powerful with a strength that mortals could not comprehend. It would take the filth that the humans spewed into it and make of the insult a gift; food for the ground-feeders and drifting seaweed. The ocean would wear it down, until it was part of the sea itself and no longer an earthly intrusion onto the green and blue depths.
Darshirin paused. His expression did not waver, for in this form his mouth was fixed in a permanent grin. But his heart began to beat painfully. He emitted the high sounds again, and the picture returned. It did not, could not lie.
Something was caught in the sewer mouth, hung up on piles of refuse and trash. Something that someone had intended to wash out to sea and vanish without a trace. Something that had thwarted that someone's intention by not doing so. Something very sad indeed.
Slowly, reluctantly, Darshirin swam closer. The picture in his mind grew more detailed, and horror swelled inside the gentle creature.
It was a human body, female. Probably the poor girl Darshirin had been dispatched to help locate; the councilman's daughter Lorinda Vandaris. He would need to look upon her in daylight, with his human eyes, to distinguish the finer points that would identify her, but he feared he had been successful in his mission.
He wished he had not. Darshirin had swum the oceans for centuries, and was not unfamiliar with human corpses. He had seen far too many sea-swollen, rotting bodies of drowned men for that. He had even been witness to a barbaric burning of a vessel in Braedon's port; had watched sorrowfully as charred bodies clogged the harbor until the merciful ocean had gone about its business and washed them out to sea. But this…
Lorinda, if it was she, had been horribly mutilated. She was lacking many features that Darshirin knew to be common to humans, and the bloated body bore innumerable cuts and slashes. Darshirin darted about, overcome with his horror and revulsion. To do this to one another-he had known humans were barbaric, but…
He recalled what Damir had told him of Lorinda. There is a girl who has been stolen from her people… She is tall, fair as we of the land reckon beauty, and full of laughter. The revolting shape before him could not be reckoned beautiful in anyone's eyes. And Darshirin was glad she had known laughter once, for she had not died with it.
His heart ached in sympathy. Though she was a human, she had clearly been of good heart, or else Damir would not have said so. Not even the evil should end up like this; and that someone who was as kind and mirthful as Lorinda should be found so, hurt Darshirin deeply.
He could not help himself. Those of the ocean kept their love and sympathy for themselves, and though it was not strictly forbidden, they did not share it with the land dwellers. But Lorinda… poor Lorinda. Darshirin closed his eyes and began to sing. He sang, in a voice that could not be heard by ears, of her beauty, and gentleness of nature. He sang of her brutal murder and tragic end. He sang, that those in the oceans might know of and lament the passing of something true and good.
And as far as Darshirin knew, it was the first time since the oceans began to teem with life that the song of the sea had been sung to mourn one whose face was raised to the sun, and whose feet trod upon dry soil.
It was almost dusk by the time Damir reached the meeting place. For a moment, the diplomat allowed himself the luxury of enjoying the beauty of a sunset over the ocean, something he was not often able to witness. The sun was a magnificent, swollen orb of orange-red. The sky itself was a rainbow of fiery hues, ranging from indigo to purple to yellow. Far above the horizon, the bolder, brighter stars were already beginning to appear. The ocean itself seemed to be bleeding, turning a rich variety of shades that mirrored the dying sun.
Damir shook himself out of his reverie. There was a great deal on his mind, and he hoped that tonight, Darshirin would have news for him. He did not permit himself to hope that the news would be good.
Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, a dolphin leaped and splashed down. Damir tethered his mare to the weathered tree, patted her absently, and made his way down to the shore. This time he had no trouble navigating the rocks and rough terrain, as he was properly dressed for just such activities.
Again Darshirin broke the surface, but this time he was much closer and in his human form. And as the sea-being walked slowly out of the water onto the shore, Damir saw that he bore a dreadful burden.
"Ah, no, please, no," Damir whispered futilely to himself. But he could not escape the truth.
Darshirin's bluish-hued face reflected his own grief, and he carried the burden of the dead and barely recognizable Lorinda with as much gentleness as he might bear a newborn to its mother's arms.
"I have found her," he said softly. "And it hurts my heart to have done so."
Carefully Darshirin knelt on the beach, where the sand was still soft and rocks did not yet encroach into the ocean. He laid the body down tenderly, stroking the ruined face of the once beautiful girl with a gentle, webbed hand.
Damir knelt too, forcing his own sorrow aside and replacing it with shrewd observation. Lorinda had been dead for several days-probably the full week that she had been missing. Damir estimated that she had met her dreadful fate on the same night she was abducted. He made allowances for the immersion in salt water and decomposition, and tried to distinguish what had happened to her while she was alive.
His stomach turned over when he realized that in all likelihood the mutilations had been performed on a living body. Dear gods. Who-what-was loose in Braedon, that would do this to an innocent young girl?
"Do you know who might have done this?" asked Darshirin, echoing Damir's thoughts. Damir shook his head grimly. "Not yet. But we will. This is… an abomination. Darshirin, you must believe that we're not all like this!"
Darshirin smiled ruefully. His emerald eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "I thought you were all without compassion, until I met you and Jemma. I know better now. But there is a darkness among your people, my friend, that stains the whole. At least the shark in the ocean gets no pleasure from his feeding; and at least those that he devours help him in turn to live. This," and the sea-being gestured helplessly at the bloated corpse, "this, I cannot understand. And I do not wish to."
Dismissing the subject, he gazed at Damir. "I come bearing more bad news, I fear. I have not had contact with Jemma in many days."
"When was your last contact?"
Darshirin thought. "Fifteen days, as you land dwellers measure them."
Damir closed his eyes. Things were just getting worse and worse. "Any word at all?"
"None. I reported that she has made contact with Castyll, as you recall, but I have heard nothing since. She does not come to the ocean anymore, and I do not think it is because she does not wish to. There is an increased presence of Mharian guards along the docks."
"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," said Damir. "Thank you, Darshirin. Your information and help have been invaluable. I think, though, it is time for me to become more active in this little scenario. I must journey to Mhar myself."
They talked for a few moments longer as Damir explained his plan. Darshirin listened, nodded. "It is past time that I returned to the ocean," he reprimanded Damir softly at length. He rubbed his forearm, which was beginning to dry out.
"Of course. I shouldn't have kept you so long."
Darshirin glanced down at Lorinda's body. "What will you do with her?"
Damir again knelt beside Lorinda. He closed his eyes and muttered an incantation. Light began to glow from his palm, and he moved his hand gently over Lorinda's body, covering every part of her. Beneath his radiant hand, Lorinda's body changed. When he was finished, she looked healthy and whole, as if she was just asleep and would awaken soon to look at the world again through laughing eyes.
"That was kind o
f you," said Darshirin. "Those who love her would not wish to see her as we have."
Damir knew that Darshirin, being related to the elven clans, could see through the illusion, as if the whole Lorinda was painted on gauze and laid over the real body like a shroud. "It's the least I can do. Would that we could have brought her safely home."
"She will not be forgotten," said Darshirin quite unexpectedly. "I have sung for her, Damir, and now all the ocean knows of her loss."
The admission startled Damir. Moved, he reached to clasp Darshirin's shoulder. Gently, the seabeing laid his own hand-slippery, moist, webbed, and warmly comforting-on Damir's own. Then he turned and slipped into the ocean. Damir did not see him again.
He took a deep breath. Death was no stranger to him. He had even seen corpses mangled almost as badly as Lorinda's was. But few of those were people he had known; fewer still, people he had liked. Gently, he picked up the body, selfishly grateful for the mind magic that allowed him to, at least partially, fool himself as well as others.
Deveren's mare was skittish at the smell of death, and pranced nervously as Damir approached. Not for the First time, Damir wished he could use his mind magic on animals. But they were less-or perhaps, Damir mused drily, more-intelligent than humans and their minds could not be so easily manipulated. For several long minutes, Damir used soothing words to try to calm the agitated creature. At last, her soft brown eyes still rolling in fear, she permitted him to strap Lorinda's corpse to her saddle.
It would be a long walk, Damir thought, but at least this time he had brought his cloak. And it would give him time to plan.
Alone with his brother in the fine dining room, Deveren stared into his goblet, not seeing the distorted reflection of his unhappy face in the glossy red surface of the wine.
Lorinda… dead. Not just dead, murdered. And not just murdered — butchered. His heart hurt just thinking about it; ached with sympathy for the loving father and the devoted paramour of the girl; and cried out, most of all, for his own wife, killed in a similar, if not quite so brutal, manner.
He listened without comment as Damir coolly told the story of how he had found the girl washed up on the beach when he had left earlier to take a long ride. How he had cast a spell over the damaged corpse and walked beside the mare for many miles to bring it home to Vandaris. How he had not told the grieving parent just how badly his only child had been mutilated. How Pedric had sat and stared numbly, his eyes dry, his voice mute.
"What in the Nightlands," said Deveren at last, wetting his throat with the ruby liquor, "is happening? Silence from Mhar. Lorinda-gods, an innocent if there ever was one- murdered. An attempt on my life, and some kind of ratlike thing crawling about in Braedon's sewers." He raised sad eyes to his brother, who had no solace to offer.
"I don't know," said Damir softly. He rose, and in passing laid a strong hand on Deveren's shoulder, gripping it tightly in mute sympathy. Damir went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He sipped it for a long minute. Deveren watched him dully.
"I want to find out, though," Damir said at last. "And I intend to."
Deveren frowned. "What do you mean?"
Damir turned to face him. "I've decided to go to Mhar. In disguise. Too many things are happening for this to be just a run of bad luck, Deveren. My whole career has been based on an ability to determine what is merely bizarre coincidence and what's got some sort of plan behind it. And this thing reeks of Mharian interference. To be more precise, Bhakir's interference."
Deveren leaned back in his chair, studying his older sibling. "What makes you so sure?" Damir smiled slightly, his thin lips curving upward. "Oh, I have my ways."
Deveren shook his head. "It's too dangerous. Send one of your, er, 'ways' to do the job."
"Can't. Dev, think for a minute." Damir sat down and gazed at his brother intently. "If I have my spies, then you have to know that Bhakir has his. Word surely has gone out that I'm here. For all we know, all this could be connected with him trying to get at me."
"I wouldn't flatter yourself. After all…" Deveren broke off suddenly and took a gulp of wine. "After all," Damir finished in a soft, compassionate voice, "my spies couldn't find the killer of your Kastara."
Deveren shot his brother an angry look. "Don't read my thoughts!"
"I didn't. I only read your face. Dev, I know this has to be bringing back painful memories. And I did use all my sources to try to find out who'd killed her. But Kastara's murder was an accident. She wasn't the target. It was clearly a theft gone wrong-horribly wrong. But that's all it was. Lorinda's murder has an element of anger about it, of-of ritual, if you will."
"Why didn't you tell Vandaris that?"
"If you'd seen the body, you'd understand. There's nothing his policing efforts could do. Enough for him to know that she was murdered-enough for Pedric, too."
Deveren leaned forward. "Show me."
Damir seemed surprised. "I really don't think-"
"Show me. If you're going to go into Mhar and probably get killed over this, I want to know what you know!"
Damir hesitated. Deveren met his gaze evenly. He had to know. At last, Damir nodded. Wordlessly, he rose and reseated himself next to Deveren. As he placed his fingers on his brother's temples, Damir said half-jokingly, "You know the routine."
Deveren did. He closed his eyes and opened his mind to the delicate probing of his brother's magic.
Though his eyes were closed, he could see clearly, through Damir's eyes. He saw the beautiful, limp body of Lorinda in her father's arms. There was a single wound, if the bloodstain between her breasts was any indication. Damir had been honest about her death, at least-Vandaris knew she had been murdered.
Before his eyes, the scene shifted. Suddenly he was on a beach at twilight, staring down at the same corpse. The illusion melted away, like wax from a candle flame, and Deveren stifled a gasp.
Dear gods. Who — no, whatever did this could hardly be called human, could they-what sort of monster had done this to a young girl? Nearly every inch of skin on the young woman had been cut. Her features-they were barely recognizable. And, Damir's "voice" whispered in his mind, she had been alive when they had done this.
Deveren jerked away. He stared at Damir, his breathing quickened, and he blinked away the horrified tears of compassion that had sprung to his hazel eyes.
Damir's face was sad, sympathetic. "Now do you see?"
Shuddering, Deveren wiped at his eyes. He nodded. Yes. Now he could see why Damir had gentled Lorinda's death for those who had loved her. It would have killed old Vandaris and driven poor young Pedric mad.
"Something is behind all this, I'm convinced of it," Damir continued. "And I have to go to Mhar myself. I can't risk anyone else. The only reason I'm even telling you is, I need someone to keep up the pretense that I haven't gone."
"What? How am I supposed to do that? Make a scare-the-crow and prop him up in the window?"
"It should only be for a few days. You can tell people I'm ill, or have gone on a sightseeing trip. I will leave tomorrow-that's Healsdae. If I'm not back by Loesdae, you'll have to come up with something." He hesitated, then added softly, "I fear for the young king. You should know that I'm planning to bring him back with me if I can."
Deveren buried his face in his hands. "From the cook pot to the kindling, Damir. Dear gods."
"If Bhakir knows I'm gone, he will look for me on Mharian soil. You've got to make sure that doesn't happen. I leave the methods," and here Damir, damn him, actually laughed, "to your lively imagination. Good heavens, Dev, if you can perform three Grand Thefts and not get caught, goodness knows what that fertile brain of yours will concoct when faced with a real challenge."
Deveren swore violently.
Castyll stared dully at the mound of herbs that lay where he had placed them. They were rotting; no human hand had disturbed them.
He had come to the garden nearly every day; and nearly every day had placed a "message" for Jemma. Castyll had left such herb
s as fennel and thyme, indicating he was keeping his courage up. Then rosemary, for remembrance, and rue-"to set free." Finally, just yesterday, he had left a handful of bay leaves. Their message: "I change but in death."
He was convinced that Jemma could no longer come to the garden. And that meant but one thing-that somehow Bhakir had found out about their correspondence.
Castyll plucked a sprig of mint and continued on his daily walk. He felt the presence of the guards behind him, and wondered if he would ever be able to walk in freedom again. The dinner five nights ago was, the young Mharian king was convinced, the beginning of the end. The power of men such as Porbrough, Zhael, and Bhakir seemed to be growing by the hour. He would have one chance to escape; to try to hide among his people and somehow rally their support.
He laughed without mirth as his booted feet trod the little paths through the flowering garden. How could he go unrecognized? Who would he contact? It was more than likely that he would be recaptured within hours, even if he did manage to make an unnoticed escape.
I change but in death. Castyll recalled the phrase associated with the bay leaf, and knew that he could pursue no other course. If he turned coward now-if he went back to Seacliff after his night with the Blesser of Love-he knew Bhakir would drop the facade. It was getting too deep. Only imprisonment-true imprisonment-or death awaited him if he remained. He would no doubt be killed immediately if he were recaptured, but at least for a few hours he would have lived up to the expectations of his father and tried to do what was right. And perhaps his death might make a martyr out of him. Perhaps people would realize what was going on before it was too late; before the net closed in around them.
It was a fool's dream and Castyll knew it. But even with that knowledge heavy on his head and heart, his spirits lightened as he thought about the day, five days hence, when he would ride to the temple of Love. It would be a highly public journey, but a highly private night.
It was a chance. And as King Castyll strode, a prisoner, through the garden that ought to have been his, trailed by guards who should have been willing to die for him, Castyll knew that the chance was more than worth it.
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