King's man and thief cov-2

by Christie Golden

  He remembered with growing horror how Pedric had at first gentled at Deveren's sympathy, then doubled over in pain to emerge twice as bitter. And he remembered the youth fidgeting and scratching…

  Deveren had been blinded by the memory of his own aching loss. He had thought Pedric merely suffering from grief and the natural anger at the violent crime. Now he realized that something far darker and dreadfully unnatural had been at work.

  "Dear gods," he said softly. Poor Pedric…

  "What?" asked Allika anxiously.

  "Nothing you need to worry about, sweeting. Go back to Vervain and tell her I will be there tonight with… with someone to test her tincture."

  It was with a lie that Deveren coaxed Pedric into the streets and out of his drunken isolation. A lie that Pedric believed because he wanted to believe it; believed because the curse that raged through him believed that everyone was as filled with hatred as he was.

  I know who murdered Lorinda. I know where we can find them. And I will help you kill them. A feral light had come into Pedric's aged-looking, unshaved face; illuminated his haunted eyes, red-rimmed with drink and sleepless nights.

  Yes, he had answered. Let us kill them. Words that Deveren had never thought to hear emerge from Pedric's cultured throat. And off they had gone, into the quiet darkness of the night. Pedric had laughed wildly, eager for blood and revenge. It was only the knowledge that Pedric was not truly responsible for his thoughts and actions that kept Deveren's heart from breaking for his friend.

  They made their way through the city, and Pedric slowed as Deveren led him to the temple of Health. He stopped in front of the little gate and turned to stare suspiciously at Deveren. "At Health's temple?" he asked, incredulous.

  Please let this work, Deveren said to himself. Aloud, he said, "They are injured. They will be easy prey." He stretched his mouth into a smile. "We can subdue them with our bare hands."

  That temptation proved to be too much for Pedric. He smiled himself, and inwardly Deveren drew back from the simple evil in that smile. How close we all are to evil, he thought. How terribly, dreadfully close. "Come," he said, inviting Pedric to go in front of him.

  He waited until Pedric had opened the door to the temple proper before bringing his hands down hard on the back of the young man's head. Pedric groaned and fell forward.

  At once Vervain was there with a light. "Get him on the table!" she cried.

  Pedric was not unconscious, and fought as Deveren tried to shove him onto the table. Again Deveren dealt him a hard blow, this time to the temple. The younger man stumbled and Deveren managed to get him onto the table. "Hurry!" he called to Vervain. "I won't be able to hold him!"

  Swiftly, efficiently, Vervain was there. Deveren crawled onto the table himself, trying to pin the writhing young man down with legs, arms, elbows, anything that would work. The heel of Pedric's hand came up and smashed Deveren in the mouth. Deveren tasted blood, but did not loose his grip. Vervain poured a swallow of her herbal tincture into Pedric's snarling mouth, saying as she did so, "Take care, Deveren! It will make him worse before it makes him well!"

  What was she talking about? Deveren thought wildly.

  Pedric gulped, choked, coughed, finally swallowed. Like the shadow of a hawk falling across a frozen, terrified hare, Deveren saw something dark pass across Pedric's fine features. His eyes seemed almost to be glowing with evil, and Deveren wildly recalled Allika's comments about the rat's red eyes. With a bellow, Pedric got his arms free and clamped his hands about Deveren's neck. Deveren's eyes flew wide and his own hands reached to his throat, trying to pry loose powerful fingers that were slowly squeezing the life out of him.

  Pedric's mouth was open, spewing obscenities. Vervain maneuvered about the struggling men and managed to slosh another mouthful into the wild younger man.

  The pressure about Deveren's throat suddenly disappeared. Coughing and gagging, Deveren lurched backward, almost falling off the table. He breathed in great gulps of sweet air, massaging his bruised neck and gazing at Pedric.

  The young nobleman was pale and sweating. His chest rose and fell as he himself sought air. But, thank the gods, that dreadful crimson glare was gone from his eyes, and his face had lost its unnatural tension. Already the grim lines of hate and anger were fading.

  "Dev," he said slowly, "Dev… I tried to kill you."

  Hoarsely, Deveren replied, still rubbing his aching throat, "And you damn near succeeded."

  Confused, Pedric blinked, looking about stupidly. 'There were people-Deveren, you were taking me to murder someone! What in the Nightlands-"

  "Not the Nightlands," interrupted Vervain smoothly, handing steaming mugs of fragrant liquid to both men. "Something all the darker for it happening right here. Drink this. It will calm you."

  As he sipped the hot herbal tea, Deveren silently marveled at the cool strength of the woman. She seemed completely unruffled by what had transpired. As he drank, she glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. He indicated that she might proceed. His throat hurt too much for him to talk right now.

  As Pedric and Deveren sat quietly, Vervain explained what she and Deveren had discovered about the curse. Pedric's eyes grew wider and sadder. When the Healer had finished, he glanced over at Deveren, looking like a whipped cur.

  "I'm sorry I said what I did… at the funeral."

  "I thought you were merely grieving. I knew what you were going through-or, at least, I thought I did," said Deveren. His voice was back to normal, thanks to Vervain's tea. "Oh, I hurt," said Pedric, his face grim. "I still ache for her. And if I ever did find the murderers, I'm not sure what I'd do. But to say those things to you-and attack you…!"

  Deveren waved it aside. "Let's just say you weren't your normal self."

  Pedric smiled a little-a very little-at that. Then the smile faded. "But if what you say is true… then nearly everyone in Braedon must be affected by now."

  The Healer nodded grimly. She was in full vestments. The red wimple hid her glorious brown hair. The open, friendly woman Deveren had seen with Allika a few nights ago was hidden by weariness and calm efficiency. "The tincture worked, but it will be tricky to apply. Do you remember what I said to you when I healed Allika, Deveren? That she first had to surrender, be made completely evil, before she could be restored?"

  Deveren nodded, drained his mug, and went to the steaming pot by the fire for a second serving. As he passed Pedric, the younger man held out his cup wordlessly. He, too, could stand another dose of the calming brew.

  "Well, the herbal remedy mimics that. There must be two doses. The first replicates the surrender to the darkness. The second restores wholeness. That was why I warned you that Pedric would get worse before he got better."

  A sudden, dreadful thought occurred to Deveren. "What about a recurrence? Does this cure someone permanently or temporarily?"

  Vervain now allowed herself a tired but proud smile. "It is a permanent cure. I gave Allika a dose earlier today, before I sent her over to you. If she had not been cured, it would have made her angry and cruel again. But it had no effect-other than to make her stick out her tongue and protest that it tasted bad."

  Deveren laughed. His heart began to lift. With a permanent cure that could be spread to the public at large-his face fell.

  "But how do we get everyone to drink it?"

  Vervain rubbed her bloodshot eyes. "That, my dear friend Deveren, is the question of the hour." Her voice softened. "I do not need to drink the tincture. I will not succumb to the sickness; I know I can fight it alone. That is part of my gift of Healing. Allika is cured. Pedric is cured. But, Deveren…" Her voice trailed off.

  Deveren felt something cold clench his stomach. "But… I haven't displayed any symptoms. I took precautions- even burned my clothes like you suggested. I'm not sick."

  "No," Vervain agreed. "But think. You met Allika right after she had been bitten by the rat. You bore her over here. You led Pedric here. Deveren, you may not be manifesting symptoms yet,
but all I know about the spread of disease tells me that you either are infected now or shortly will be."

  "You… you want me to drink that? As a precaution?"

  She nodded, slowly, implacably.

  Deveren sat silently. A Healer could not force him to obey her suggestions, when she did not know for a certainty that disease would result. That was part of her creed. And Pedric was not going to insist, either. They left the decision up to Deveren. He thought about what, exactly, it would mean- to become evil. Ah, gods, he didn't want this…

  … and then he thought of Allika, and Pedric, raging and out of control. Better to choose the moment than have it thrust upon him. Abruptly, his decision made, Deveren snatched the bottle from the table and swallowed a huge mouthful.

  Vervain rose, crying, "Pedric, hold him!" At the same moment, Pedric, alarm spreading across his handsome face, moved to grasp Deveren.

  But he was too late.

  The mixture was not the bitter draft Deveren had expected. It was honey-sweet, slipping easily down his throat. Instantly, Deveren felt wonderful. The worry for his brother slipped from his mind. He moved easily out of Pedric's clumsy reach, almost dancing free. Ah, Pedric.

  "Sorry, friend. Should have left you as you were. It's a lot more fun."

  He directed his gaze at Vervain, who drew back before it, her eyes wide. She was a pretty piece. Needed to get rid of those bulky robes. Deveren was certain that underneath all those red garments was a body that would thrill a man in bed. He'd show her what a real man was like. And she'd like it. Or if she didn't, no matter. Murder held the same release and pleasure as copulation. He instinctively knew it.

  Again Pedric tried to grab him. This time, Deveren landed a solid punch to the younger man's face. "Ah, ah, ah," he chastised as Pedric staggered back. He spared another glance for the Healer. "Not now, pretty thing. I'll come back for you when you're least expecting me. But here's a little something to whet your appetite."

  He strode over to Vervain and roughly pulled her to him. She struggled in his arms. 'That's it, fight me," Deveren growled. He bent his head, his tongue licking her face like an animal's as she cried out and attempted to turn her face away. Oh, to be able to take her right here, right now…

  "No!" cried Pedric. Deveren felt strong hands on his arm, spinning him around. Vervain stumbled backward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her reach for the tincture.

  Deveren turned on Pedric and saw that his former friend had drawn his dagger. He'd had enough of this youth's meddling. He charged and Pedric fell before the onslaught of pure fury, whirling to unexpectedly attack the youth and pinning him on the floor with a knee on his throat.

  "Try to pull a knife on me, will you? It'll be harder to do that when you don't have any fingers, won't it?" He savagely opened Pedric's hand, and the blade clattered to the floor. Deveren forced the hand flat, spreading the fingers, and prepared to use the dagger to slice off Pedric's fingers one by one.

  "Kastara! "

  The word, barely a whisper issuing from Pedric's throat, halted Deveren, blade poised above Pedric's little finger, penetrating the hot dreams of lust and violence. Kastara. Beloved. A deep love battled with the newly aroused evil. And then pain, pain so intense he had never tasted its like, hit him like the fist of an angry god. All the strength went out of him and he rolled off Pedric, clutching his stomach and squealing like a rabbit with the agony.

  At once he felt fingers pinching his nose shut. Another hand forced open his mouth, poured a liquid into it. He had to swallow or choke to death.

  This time it was bitter, harsh and acidic, and burned his throat as he gulped it down. There was a sudden ache as the evil that had flooded him receded. He blinked, coughed, then slowly sat up.

  Pedric had scooted away, rubbing his throat. Vervain, too, had stepped out of immediate reach. Both were eying him warily. Hot shame rushed over Deveren as he recalled what had just happened. What to say? What to do? How could he possibly apologize? And the one thing that lingered, that frightened him the most, was that somehow he was aware that what had just washed over him was not insanity. He had merely become the Deveren that might have been, had there been no love, no goodness, no light to brush his life in the previous thirty-four years.

  There was a beast within everyone, and Deveren had looked it in the face. His expression of horror and contrition must have reassured them, for they relaxed as they watched him. Pedric smiled shakily. "Welcome back," he said quietly.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  And Parin took the Sword of Vengeance, and for seven days and seven nights, the river ran red with blood.

  — Mharian folktale, The Seven Deeds of Parin

  Castyll had been able to sleep only for a few hours; a short nap in a whore's scented bed. Both he and Damir knew that speed was of the essence. By the time midmorning came, Bhakir would have already put word out about Castyll's disappearance. He would be closing roads, searching ships, and it would be increasingly dangerous to be en route to Jarmair. But only in Jarmair would Castyll be able to gather armed men to fight for him; and only with armed men could he hope to defeat Bhakir.

  So Castyll, Damir, and his loyal men were on their way as dawn lightened the horizon. With relatively little effort-or so it seemed to the young king-Damir had put an illusion on Castyll that disguised his features so that he would not be recognized. At one point, traveling along a little-used road that led out of Ilantha, Castyll had glanced down at the major road and seen a large group of armed men heading for the port city. He'd shuddered, and thanked whatever god was responsible for sending Damir to Mhar.

  They talked of magic, to pass the long hours on horseback over difficult terrain. Damir seemed certain that Castyll had indeed inherited the ability to use magic, and that the only thing stopping Castyll was his own trepidation. That night, when they made a camp devoid of fire for warmth or cooking meat-Damir had deemed it too dangerous-the older man had gently probed the young king's mind, seeking confirmation of what he expected.

  He smiled as his fingers left Castyll's temples. "It is there, locked away, as a miser might hoard his treasure. I fear it is far too deeply rooted in your mind for you to locate it on your own. It might take weeks of searching, but I could guide you."

  "Will you, Damir? Will you be my tutor?"

  Damir chuckled. His face was dim in the starlight. "Let us recapture your kingdom first, Your Majesty. Then we will be free to contemplate tutoring and other such happy activities."

  They moved on before dawn of the following morning. Castyll ached from such long hours in the saddle, but reminded himself that had he been forced to walk the distance, he'd have long since been captured.

  He had desperately wanted to ride into the capital city openly, with his royal standard snapping in the breeze, waving to the people he was certain were still loyal. Damir had immediately quashed the idea. "Assassins," he had said simply. "The humblest peasant could be one of Bhakir's men in disguise. We will proceed carefully. There is always the chance that my plan might not have worked."

  "Do your plans have a history of not working, Damir?"

  "Not often."

  "They call you the Problem Solver. Did you know that?"

  Damir laughed. "So I have heard. Your Majesty."

  By the end of that long day, Castyll's royal bottom was aching and his legs screamed for rest. But Jarmair was within sight, and even from this place up in the hills he could see the castle that had been his home since the day he was born.

  "Castle Derlian," he said softly. "Oh, Damir. We're almost there."

  On Damir's instructions, they waited for full night. Then, after all the men, including Castyll, had armored up and checked their weapons, they rode slowly into the quiet farmlands that surrounded Castle Derlian, keeping well away from the darkened houses. Damir's men closed ranks about the king, while Damir rode, sometimes scouting ahead, sometimes circling behind. Castyll guessed that Byrn's finest ambassador was using his formidable mind magic, trying
to sense danger. It was all very reassuring.

  At last, they came within sight of the mammoth gates of Castle Derlian. Damir kneed his horse and approached Castyll and the circle of men. "We go no further without reassurance that we're not walking into a trap," he stated bluntly.

  "What do you suggest?" queried Castyll.

  "We send in a decoy." Damir's bright eyes roamed over the faces of his men, and it was to them that he addressed his next words. "I'll cast an illusion on one of you. You will go forward and demand entrance. You will appear to be the king-alone, unarmed. If they attack the decoy, then the rest of us flee. If they take the false king inside, we wait till we hear a report and if not, then-"

  "What?" cried Castyll, aghast. "You'd send a man to walk into a trap?"

  "With His Majesty's pardon," spoke up one of the men, "we have all faced death many times before. That is our duty. Any one of us would consider it an honor to die protecting you and obeying our own king's orders."

  "No." Castyll shook his dark head. "I won't allow it."

  Damir sighed in exasperation. "Majesty-"

  "You are under orders to obey me as if I were your own king, yes?" asked Castyll, knowing the answer.

  "Aye, but it would behoove you to listen to someone with my experience."

  "I have, Damir, and I know you know what you're doing. But — this is my kingship we're talking about. I should be the one walking into a trap, if there is one. Let us compromise. I will agree to send a man up as a decoy. But if they attack him-me-then we fight. And if they want to take him into the castle, we ride up and reveal the deception."

  "Your Majesty," replied Damir with more than a touch of exasperation, "what if I'm right and you are walking willingly to your death?"

  Castyll weighed his words carefully before he spoke. "It is my firm belief that this castle is manned with people loyal to me. That they have no idea of the evil Bhakir has been perpetrating. If that's true, and if your plan has worked, then we are walking toward the final victory, the restoration of my kingdom. If it's not true-if there is no one inside those stone walls who remains loyal to me- then there is no one within these borders whom I can trust. And the kingdom is lost beyond recapture. The Derlian line will have come to an end, and I will go down fighting to uphold the honor of those who have died before me."