King's man and thief cov-2

by Christie Golden

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Though the body shall crumble to dust, know ye that the spirit lingers on, and shall take flight from the earthly prison, and shall serve the gods as it strives for the great Light.

  — excerpt from traditional Byrnian burial ritual

  It was too little to be noticed, at first.

  All across the city, Braedonians were finding that their sleep did not refresh them as much; that their spouses were much more irritating to be around than they used; that the merchants cheated in the quality of their goods; that the drunks in the streets were more obnoxious than hitherto. They also discovered that tempers soared more quickly, that tavern brawls were bloodier-and that this was much to their liking.

  It was right, wasn't it, to strike a man who had insulted you? To beat your wife when she displeased you? Children were supposed to obey, weren't they, if they didn't want to make their hardworking parents angry? And if one's heart felt more at ease when one had wounded another, through scathing words or an aptly placed blow, well then, that was merely a sign that one had done what was right.

  Wasn't it?

  Of course it was.

  The day itself seemed to mock the solemn and tragic ceremony. It was another typical summer day-bright blue skies, with only a hint of wispy clouds, a warm, strong sun, and a breeze that came in off the ocean to cool what might have been an uncomfortable heat.

  The public crier had begun his melancholy task at dawn. He had walked through the streets of Braedon, announcing Lorinda's death and the time and place of the burial. Deveren had had warning, thanks to Damir, and when he rose he dressed in black. A messenger had come from the Councilman's Seat shortly after the crier's voice had faded. Lord Vandaris wished Damir to be one of the pallbearers. Both Larath brothers were invited to march in the procession.

  Damir had brought no black clothes, and those he had perforce borrowed from Deveren hung loosely on his slender frame. Now Deveren waited with the throng of black-clad mourners outside the Councilman's Seat. He knew what was transpiring within. Health's Blesser-Vervain, wasn't it? — would be working side by side with Death's Blesser to prepare the body. Together, the representatives of the gods of Health and Death would be briefly united in their tasks. They would bathe the torn body with scented water; anoint it with balsam and ointments. They would sew Lorinda first into a linen shroud, then into a deerskin. They would lay her in the wooden coffin, on a bed of moss and scented herbs.

  Deveren did not envy them their sad task.

  He squinted up at the sun; it was midmorning now. How could such a day be so beautiful? He returned his attention to the massive doors. As custom demanded, they were draped with black fabric.

  Then, with no warning, the doors swung open. The Blessers were first. They came in order of their deity's age; Love first, the eldest of all. She was a middle-aged woman with streaks of white in her dark hair. She was clad not in the more usual, arm-revealing tunic typical to her rank, but in a heavy gown.

  Following the Blesser of Love was Light's Blesser, an elderly gentleman also clad more formally than usual. Third was Vervain, clad in heavy red robes, her hair completely covered by her formal wimple and her eyes encircled by dark smudges. She caught Deveren's eye and nodded slightly in recognition. He nodded back. Then came Traveler's Blesser, a young man who seemed to have trouble moderating his healthy stride to the solemn walk the occasion warranted.

  Death's Blesser was next. Deveren was confused at first. He had seen Death's Blesser on the night of his Grand Thefts, when she had given him that odd warning that had, perhaps, later saved his life. That woman had been young and very beautiful, though rather alarming. This woman, though dressed in the formal black robes that marked her as a Blesser of her deity, was much older. And much less attractive, Deveren thought to himself, hoping the observation wasn't offensive to the goddess. What was going on? Perhaps Braedon's Blesser was ill today and they had asked one of the neighboring towns to send their Blesser as a substitute.

  Next in line were the earthly representatives of Hope/ Despair. This twinned-natured god was perhaps the hardest for mortals to comprehend. Health, Death, Love-all were concepts easily grasped. But the strange, contradictory nature of Hope/Despair was unsettling. How eagerly they had all hoped Lorinda would be found alive and unharmed; how bitterly they had despaired at the sight of the corpse, gentled though the sight had been by Damir's compassionate mind magic. Since the divine being Hope/Despair had two faces, s/he had two representatives. The adult Blesser who assumed the aspect of Despair was a woman, and the youthful innocence of the boy Hope could only be conveyed by a lad whose years were few. Because of this, Hope/Despair was the only divinity who allowed children, who were normally merely Tenders to other gods, to be as valued as adult Blessers. The woman seemed to be too beautiful to represent Despair, but the Tender could almost have stepped out of a painting, so perfectly did his sweet face seem to embody Hope.

  Bringing up the rear of the line of Blessers was Vengeance's Blesser. He was a slight, small man, and moved with quick, jerky movements. Deveren could not see his face; it was hidden in the shadow of the black cowl. Despite the warmth of the day, a shudder passed through Deveren. Both the thought of Vengeance and the sight of his twitchy little Blesser were unnerving.

  The murmurs of sympathy escalated into sobs and wails. Lorinda's coffin, closed and draped with black cloth, emerged. It was borne on a pall, and the four men who had the grim burden of taking the once beautiful maiden to her final resting place were a fragile-looking Vandaris, a gray-faced Pedric, a solemn Damir, and a stricken Telian Jaranis, the captain of the guardsman who had failed to protect an innocent or even discover her killer. For a moment, Jaranis met Deveren's eyes, then he glanced away quickly.

  It was too close, too much like that horrible night seven years ago. For just a moment Deveren was there, shouldering the weight of his dead wife's coffin, his face no doubt as gray as Pedric's, his eyes as haunted.

  Deveren was not aware that his fists clenched and his mouth thinned. He had a group of thieves at his command. Somehow they would find the killer. Somehow. He could not stand by and hold his head up knowing two beloved women had gone to their deaths while their killers walked free.

  Now the mourners were in line, carrying candles. Deveren was not surprised to see that many of his thieves were among them. He knew it was not for love of Lorinda, though it might have been in sympathy for Pedric, one of their own. Most likely it was because traditionally, candle-bearing mourners could earn alms at the funerals of wealthy families. Deveren couldn't find it in his heart to begrudge them; he knew how hard life was for some of them.

  Deveren fell in line, one of many in a sea of black. He kept his emotions carefully in check, for he knew if he wept it would not be just for Lorinda; and if tears started for Kastara in such an environment, Deveren did not know if he could stop them.

  They walked down the cobbled streets of the wealthy parts of town, then the line of mourners turned and headed up into the mountains. Once, several decades ago, the dead had been buried closer to town, down in a meadow not far from the ocean. But when a terrible storm had come, it had left in its wake the macabre sight of dozens of corpses floating in the harbor. So Braedon's cemetery had been moved farther away from such calamities. The dead deserved to rest in peace.

  Now the cemetery, fenced in by a low wall of stones, was in sight. The gate stood open, and the procession turned in to it. Ahead, Deveren caught sight of Vervain's vivid red garb as the Blessers went to the grave that had been prepared earlier that morning.

  The procession came to a halt. Deveren threaded his way through the crowd. Vandaris would want to see him there. He stood, the sun beating down upon his uncovered head, as the coffin was gently lowered into the grave. The smell of flowers and clean, newly dug earth reached Deveren's nostrils. It was a dreadfully incongruous scent.

  The wind rose, and it snatched away the Blessers' words as each one of them spoke in turn. Deveren
strained, but could only catch phrases: "Pure light," "courage," "family have strength to endure," and other phrases that were meant to comfort but more often than not sounded hollow and weak.

  Deveren knew that the theory regarding life after death was that the spirits of the dead served the gods in various ways, until they had achieved enough purity to pass into immaculate, holy light. It was a pretty idea, and Deveren was certain that the majority of people believed it. But he did not. Perhaps if Kastara had not died so violently and unnaturally, he might have been more willing to listen to tradition and let her go. But she had not, and Deveren had no comfort in the thought of his beloved as pure, holy light.

  He let them drone on and turned his attention to the four men who had borne Lorinda here. Jaranis clearly felt responsible for the death, and seemed ill at ease next to Vandaris. Damir had struck the perfect pose between grief and composure. It was utterly typical of the diplomat, Deveren thought. Vandaris seemed as if he had aged a decade. He'd always been on the heavy side, his face round and jovial in leisure, reassuringly solid in his role as councilman. Now the excess pounds seemed to be literally weighing him down. Surely he had not stooped quite so much before. And there were hollows in his pasty cheeks despite the double chin. Lorinda had been his only child.

  Pedric seemed to be the hardest hit by the dreadful turn of events. He, too, had aged. One would have to look hard to find the handsome, rakish youth beneath that solemn, stricken face. Deveren feared that one might not find it again. He seemed ill at ease, fidgeting as the Blessers continued their seemingly eternal litanies and scratching himself nervously. There was something in his pain-filled eyes that Deveren did not like, not at all. Something that seemed too familiar-cold anger.

  At last it was over. Vandaris stepped forward and tossed in a handful of earth. It landed with a dull thump on the coffin. Deveren felt a lump rise in his throat. Of all that had transpired, that dreadful sound was the worst, the saddest. It was so final; so real.

  The grave diggers took over now, shoveling clods of dirt onto the coffin. Vandaris walked away, his footing unsure. He was surrounded by well-wishers. Jaranis left the scene at once, several of his guardsmen falling in behind him as he briskly strode back down toward the city. Deveren knew that for him, solace lay in action-in trying to track down and punish the murderers.

  Damir made his way over toward Deveren. "Lovely ceremony," said Deveren dutifully. "It was a farce," said Damir, totally unexpectedly.

  Deveren did a double-take at his brother. "What?"

  "Beautiful words, beautiful weather, polite condolences — bah!" Damir did not let his carefully composed expression change, and his voice was pitched soft. His scandalous words were for his brother's ears only. "That girl died badly, Dev. As badly as it is possible for a human being to die. What was called for here was righteous anger and justice, not the same ceremony one uses for an old woman who dies in her sleep."

  Despite the sorrow that hung on his heart, Deveren found himself smiling a little. Strangers would discount it, and even friends of the pair didn't always believe it, but Deveren and Damir were far more alike than they were different.

  He glanced around, trying to find Pedric. The youth had wandered away from the well-meaning but no doubt intrusive mourners. Deveren spotted him alone, leaning up against a tree. He was rubbing his temples as if his head hurt. "I'm going to talk to Pedric," he told Damir. The older man nodded.

  Deveren walked slowly across the flower-starred meadow, making his way between the stones that covered the dead. Pedric glanced up as he approached, then back down to the ground. He did not speak.

  "Pedric," began Deveren, "you know how sorry I am."

  Pedric snorted, and the look that he shot his friend had real hatred in it. "Pretty words won't bring her back."

  "No," Deveren readily agreed. They stood for a time in awkward silence. "Pedric… believe me, I know how you feel."

  The younger man's response was a blistering oath. He wheeled, turning on Deveren, his fists clenched. "How in the Nightlands would-oh." Some of the anger faded, but not much. "I guess you're the one person here who would understand, come to that."

  Suddenly he shuddered and a small sound of pain escaped him. Worried. Deveren reached to steady his friend. "Pedric, are you all right? You're probably exhausted. Here, let's get you away from this crowd. I've got some wine at home, we can go and talk and-"

  "That's your answer to everything, isn't it, Fox?" The word was spat, like an epithet. "Talk, talk, talk, let's all play nice, be good little thievey-weeveys. Well, I'm not going to play nice. I want whoever killed her and I want to rip him apart with my bare hands! You once felt as I do, but you let it go. You let life just suck the hurt right out of you. You go home to your fine house, and you drink your fine wine, and you watch your fine plays, and you spin fine little schemes for turning your thieves into kind-hearted do-gooders."

  Pedric was raging now. His bloodshot eyes were wild and flecks of saliva flew from his lips. His voice was rising, and Deveren grew alarmed. If someone overheard…

  "Lorinda wouldn't want you-"

  "To the Nightlands with Lorinda! She's dead, Deveren, dead, and the dead are nothing but dirt. There's no purity in rot. Gods, Dev, couldn't you smell her as we brought the coffin by? She's gone, and there's nothing left of her now but decaying flesh and a memory, and the hope that I can somehow do to her killers what they did to her. So you can just take your wine and your talk and leave me alone!"

  He stalked off, head held high, every line of his slim but muscular form radiating anger. Deveren watched him go, absolutely stunned. He had never seen Pedric like this before. Grief he had expected, and anger, but not the poisonous vitriol and contempt that had spewed from Pedric.

  The reaction set in and Deveren began to shake. He felt as though Pedric had physically assaulted him with his words. Dear gods, the boy must be dying inside to have spoken like that. "Give him a little time to think and room to be alone with his pain," said Damir's soft voice behind Deveren.

  Deveren started. "Damn it, I wish you'd quit doing that."

  Damir smiled briefly, then sobered. "I'm going to have to leave very shortly. I've been coughing this morning and doing my best to appear as if I'm going to get very ill. It's up to you to keep that appearance going."

  Deveren searched his brother's eyes. "I don't like this, Damir. I don't like it at all."

  "You don't have to like it," replied Damir. "You just have to agree to keep up the illusion that I'm resting in your house." At once, he leaned away and coughed loudly, raspily. Deveren thought that had not Damir pursued the path of a diplomat, he'd have made an excellent thespian.

  Castyll could not contain his excitement. Freedom was just a few hours away. He laughed as he rode the beautiful white horse down the main road of Ilantha, waving to the enthusiastic throngs who had turned out to see their young king walk the path to true manhood.

  He was clad symbolically in white, down to the beautiful leather boots that had been made specifically for the occasion. The guards who rode attendance had exchanged their somber uniforms for bright tunics, and their horses all had colored ribbons braided in their manes. Even Bhakir had supplemented his sky-blue robes with a lively crimson and gold sash. The entire company looked more like they were going to a festival than to a holy rite. But then again, this rite was something out of the ordinary.

  As usual, Bhakir was never more than a yard away from him. The counselor sat astride a large bay gelding. Castyll felt his disapproval.

  "You're in a jovial mood, my good King Castyll," said Bhakir.

  Castyll didn't take his eyes off his subjects. He didn't want to spoil the mood by looking at Bhakir. "And why shouldn't I be?" he replied gaily. "I'm a healthy young man going off to learn the secrets of love."

  Bhakir snorted. "She's hardly qualified to teach you anything."

  "Doesn't matter. She is the Blesser of Love. It's her right."

  "She's not beautiful."

/>   "She doesn't have to be." At once, Castyll realized he had misspoken. He had meant that physical beauty had no part to play in the holy rite between Blesser and initiate. Instead, Bhakir clearly interpreted the words to have a cruder meaning, and he laughed nastily.

  "All cats are gray in the dark, eh, lad?"

  The king's good spirits soured. Bhakir managed to sully everything he was part of. Castyll did not let his ire show, however. Instead, forcing himself to reply on Bhakir's level, he replied, "Indeed."

  Again Bhakir laughed, and turned around in the saddle, sharing the coarse joke with the guards riding attendance. They laughed along with their master. Castyll swallowed his anger and his natural instinct to come to the defense of the shy young Adara. Instead, he rejoiced in the fact that he had lulled Bhakir into a false sense of security. If he thought that Castyll was riding eagerly toward a long night of rutting, then Bhakir would not be expecting an escape attempt.

  Up ahead, he glimpsed the temple of Love. In the smaller towns and countrysides, the temple would often be surrounded by trees, or in the center of an uncultivated meadow. Here in a major port city, it was not as rustic as men's memories tended to paint it. Necessity required that a city dwelling forgo such a setting, but the actual building itself still spoke of the uncomplicated goddess it represented. The building was a simple, single-story stone house. There was a garden; Love's temple always had a garden, but instead of a vast, fruit-laden orchard, this one was small and simple. It was crowded with flowers in the front, and Castyll knew that there was a small plot of land in the rear. Flat stones formed a path from the street up through the simple garden to the door.

  On the overlarge wooden door was a carving of Love laying a small hand on a fawn. Castyll dismounted. The crowd had gone quiet. Had things progressed as they ought, Castyll thought bitterly, he would be coming as a prince, not a king. Shahil would be there, asking the questions and answering them, performing the part of a father leading a son to manhood. Bhakir had proposed taking this role, but for once Castyll had given full reign to his feelings and shot down that idea as if it were a quail he was hunting.