King's man and thief cov-2

by Christie Golden

  He was past words; past the ability to let her know how he had loved her, how bleak life had been without her. Tears spilling down his ashen cheeks, Deveren in silence did the single most difficult thing he had ever done, would ever do, in his life.

  He let her go.

  At that moment, he felt a hand — a real, solid, human hand-clamp down on his shoulder and spin him around. He stared up into Marrika's face as she lifted her hand, clenched tight around the dagger, to complete what she had begun. A roar came from behind him, and he saw Marrika's face change to absolute terror as a white, wolf-shaped wraith leaped upon her. Both Deveren and Marrika were knocked to the floor. Deveren scrambled up and back, just in time to see the wolf that had been Kastara a few seconds earlier clamp her powerful jaws down on Marrika's throat. The white muzzle disappeared for an instant, buried in Marrika's neck, though to Deveren's eye the Raven's throat appeared utterly whole. Then the spirit-wolf tugged, pulling loose the bright flash that was dying woman's soul, which she swallowed.

  "Honored among men are you twice this night," came a soft voice. Startled, Deveren tore his gaze from the feasting wolf to see Lady Death herself standing beside him. "First by the touch of my sister, then to bear witness to my spirit-wolves."

  She knelt and stroked his cheek. He was surprised to feel that her hand was warm, not cold, as he had expected. Leaning forward, she brushed his forehead with petal-soft lips.

  "It was not your time that night, nor this one. I was the First to come, to stand against the blasphemy and the evil that were loosed; and I shall be the last to leave. Those that have died here were destined to die tonight. You are not among them. But the next time that Death kisses thee," she whispered, "thou shalt come with her."

  She straightened, and turned to the phantom pack. "Come. There are other souls to feast upon ere dawn lightens the skies!"

  Howling, the wolves fled, racing out into the madness of the Midsummer Night, their feet leaving no trace of their passage. And their mistress followed, a darker shape against the darkness of the night.

  For a long time, Deveren simply sat, leaning against the bloodied altar and trying to comprehend the miracles to which he had been witness. At last, he stumbled to his feet. Absently, he rubbed his injured jaw. The pain disappeared, as he would have expected had he been thinking more clearly.

  The candles were burning low now, but somehow it didn't seem quite as dark outside as it had been before. His eyes fixed on the still-open door, Deveren made his shambling way over the dead that littered the floor. He leaned against the door for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.

  The fires of last night seemed to have either burned themselves out or had been extinguished. Yet there was definitely a lightness about the night that told him that dawn, while not yet here, was on its way.

  The streets were curiously deserted of the living. The dead, though, lay where they had fallen. Indeed, Lady Death's wolves had had a feast tonight…

  The clatter of horse's hooves on cobblestone roused him from his trancelike contemplation. He glanced up to see Pedric, perched on Flamedancer, barrelling down on him. The young man pulled on the gelding's reins and Flamedancer slowed to a stop.

  "Deveren! Thank the gods you're all right. Come with me-there's something you must see!"

  Obligingly, still moving as one in a dream, Deveren mounted behind Pedric. The young man turned the horse's head around and headed back down the street, down Ocean's View toward the port. It was definitely getting lighter. They rounded a bend in the street and suddenly Deveren found himself staring at the open ocean. Hundreds of others were there as well; those who had fought the curse and won to stand, now, shoulder to shoulder, enraptured by what they witnessed.

  A tremendous battle was taking place against a gray sky. Deveren couldn't even count the number of ships in the port, though he realized that most of them were Mharian vessels. He knew the lion of Mhar as well as anybody, and nearly every ship in the harbor flew it. The vessels that did not flew a flag that was solid black.

  "Good gods," he whispered softly. "An invasion?"

  "I'm not so sure," said Pedric. "They seem to be fighting among themselves. Look."

  And sure enough, just as Deveren watched, the sails of one of the ships went up in a burst of orange flame, providing even more light to see by for the shocked onlookers clustered around the port. "But how could that happen? A fire just doesn't start that fast!" exclaimed Pedric.

  Suddenly Deveren realized who it must be. "Damir," he said, his voice trembling with joy. "Dev… but wasn't Damir…?"

  “I t's a long story. Oh, thank gods, he's alive! Don't you see?" Deveren leaned past Pedric and pointed. "That's His Majesty's own ship, right there. It's got his personal standard. King Castyll himself has come to help save Braedon!"

  He would have said more, save that a spectacle that even Deveren was totally unprepared for silenced the cheering throngs. The ocean rippled, and without further warning a huge whale cleared the surface. It thrust itself high in the air, landing with a mighty splash near one of the ships not allied with the king's fleet. A tremendous wave rocked the ship, but it did not capsize. Then, incredibly, a second whale-a third — also leaped into the air. The ship could not stand against that and it overturned.

  And was it… could that be sharks who found the flailing seamen and dragged them down? And gulls that dove, shrieking, at those who still lived?

  The ocean churned. More whales? wondered Deveren wildly, but the sudden rapid pounding of his heart told him that something far more miraculous was about to occur.

  From the depths emerged a creature that Deveren had never seen outside of fanciful paintings. It was enormous, far longer than any five ships put together. As its massive head broke the surface, the creature, long tongue flickering and sharp teeth bared, rose… and rose…

  Then it leaped, diving across the ship as easily as a deer might clear a tangle of brush. A length of sinuous, shimmering scales followed it. It emerged to repeat the movement, encompassing the hapless vessel within its crushing coils. The ship didn't have a prayer. Even this far away, Deveren and Pedric could hear the sound it made as the creature cracked the mighty ship to useless spars.

  "Dear gods," breathed Pedric. His eyes were wide with wonder. "Dear gods."

  Riveted, Deveren leaped off Flamedancer. He scrambled to the top of a tavern for a better view. As he watched, hardly daring to breathe, the remaining enemy vessels ran down their flags. For a long, tense moment, they flew nothing at all. And then, just as the sun cleared the horizon, the enemy ran up another flag. The dawn's light turned the white flag of surrender to a bright, glowing pink. A huge cheer went up among the crowd.

  The ocean's creatures, summoned at this hour of need, disappeared as if they had never been. And Deveren, standing alone atop a rundown shanty of a tavern, felt his hands flare with divine heat, one last time, and then, with the tranquillity and inevitability of a sunset at the end of a hot day, softly cool.

  He stumbled. The exhaustion and the tension that Health's gift had kept at bay all through the nightmarish ordeal descended now, full force. He was utterly depleted. He was famished. And most of all, he felt achingly empty and alone. Deveren had not realized how Health's gift had bound him to others through the act of Healing. He had been not one man, but many. Every person he had touched had become a part of him for this one brief, miraculous time.

  Now he was more alone than he had ever been in his life. Despite himself, a sob of mourning left his lips.

  No.

  Not alone. Kastara had reminded him. He had been part of a miracle tonight, the only man every permitted Health's glory. He had had a chance that all people long for-to see his departed love a final time, to know beyond a doubt, with a certainty not granted to even the most faithful, that she was at peace. Her words sounded again in his ear, as he suspected they would for the rest of his life: Beloved, there are many who yet need you here — who need the love that fills your heart, as I once did. An
d as for your child-you have found her already. Go and be with them, Deveren, while life is yet yours to enjoy, to drink of, to savor.

  Her words about his "child" — what did she mean by that? With a suddenness that dizzied him, he realized that it didn't matter. He did know who his child was… if the girl would have him. Whether she was his lost child in another body or merely a little girl whole unto herself, it didn't matter. And he hoped, with an earnestness that hurt, that he was right about who one of the "others" might be.

  He was still tired. He was still ravenous and aching with the trials of the long night that had been. But that night was over, and Deveren's heart was freer than it ever had been.

  He leaped down from the roof and found his footing. And then Deveren Larath began to run, his burning muscles protesting but obeying as he raced toward the square, toward Health's temple and toward his future-bound up with that of a little girl, whose name he cried out as he approached:

  "Allika!"

  EPILOGUE

  A week had passed since Midsummer Night, and Braedon was beginning to show tentative signs of normalcy. The quarantine imposed by the City Council had eliminated the threat of a pandemic. Many still dealt with the grim task of gathering up the dead where they had fallen and loading the corpses onto what was called, with a trace of black humor, the Deathride. They would be taken out of the city limits and burned, to lessen any chance of the curse spreading. The resulting bonfire, visible from Braedon, kept the night skies from ever becoming fully dark. And when a cruel wind blew, ashes from the dead would fall like gray snow on the town.

  But even in the somber aftermath, there were bright glimmers of hope. More had survived the disaster than could have been expected. As each person was healed, he had come, taken an armload of bottles of the tincture, and gone forth to heal many others. Once cured, Braedon's citizens rallied further to help those less fortunate. Nobles, perhaps recalling what the curse had done to them when they suffered in its grip, opened their homes to provide temporary shelter for those whose dwellings had been burned during the height of the curse's rampage. Those who were hungry came to the Councilman's Seat, where hot soup and bread awaited them. Vervain found herself with no shortage of willing, if unskilled, hands to distribute the tincture to those who were still alive but unhealed.

  Many of these volunteers, thought Deveren Larath to himself with a trace of justifiable pride, were his own thieves. The knowledge pleased him. Those who had intentionally followed the darker paths carved out by Marrika and Freylis had not survived that night. The thieves who remained were more inclined to listen to Deveren's ideas, to be aware of something a little larger than their own needs. Deveren's dream of honor among thieves seemed to be coming true, after all.

  He lay back in the cooling grass, staring up at the blue sky. The wind, today, was kind, and there were no solemn reminders of the disaster visible at present. The only clouds were large, fluffy ones; natural and harmless. On a whim, Deveren plucked a sprig of grass and chewed on it, as he had when he was a youth.

  He'd been surprised to learn that it was largely Castyll's doing that had thwarted the attack on Braedon. Damir admitted to helping, but would not say exactly how. "I must have some secrets, even from my brother," he quipped. But Castyll in private had later confided to Deveren that Damir had friends in the ocean's depths, who had come and given their aid in a most marvelous fashion.

  Deveren liked Castyll, who for the time being was an honored guest in Lord Larath's modest home. He was young, yes, and oh so terribly earnest. But he was genuine in his love of his people and his fondness for the Byrnians. And he was clearly devoted to Princess Cimarys. There were rumors of a united kingdom-a new country. Deveren idly wondered what the flag would be. Mhar had a lion; Byrn had an eagle. Maybe they'd make a griffin to represent this new realm.

  He heard a squeal of laughter, followed by a puppy's yipping bark. His lips smiled around the sprig of grass in his mouth. The laughter of his daughter was the sweetest sound in the world to him now. Allika had wept and readily agreed to an official adoption, and had fallen in love with the little brachet Deveren had bought her to be a new companion in Miss Lally's stead. The child had named the little dog Miss Lally, stating confidently that Miss Lally hadn't ever really died and that she would always be there, guarding Allika.

  After what Deveren had experienced on that night of nights a short week ago, he was in no position to argue.

  "Liest thou there, thou summer youth, /Contemplating life and truth?" came a voice tremulous with suppressed mirth.

  Deveren bolted upright, brushing sheepishly at the weeds in his hair. Grinning, Vervain sank down beside him. She brought her knees up to her chin and hugged them, her eyes shining. Her scarlet garb contrasted vividly with the green grass and blue skies.

  "I didn't know you read bad poetry," said Deveren, blushing a little at having been found in such an undignified position. The current trend among those with too much money and time was to idolize the innocent farmer, not taking into account the backbreaking realities of the "simple country life."

  Vervain grimaced mockingly. "Some things one just can't avoid," she said with an exaggerated sigh.

  Silence stretched between them. Deveren had spoken with Vervain about what he had experienced during his "ride," a feat that many of the local bards had seized upon as perfect ballad material. Deveren had even heard a few, and had begun to fear that he'd be subjected to various versions of Deveren's Ride for the rest of his life. It was all rather embarrassing. He had told Vervain about Kastara's spirit, about Death's manifestation. But he had said nothing about Kastara's words to him-not yet.

  To break the uncomfortable silence, Deveren said, "How did you know where to find me?" Vervain smiled gently. "Your brother told me that you come here about this time every day, since Midsummer Night."

  "Here" was Kastara's grave. Deveren had never been able to bring himself to visit his dead wife's final resting place before. It had been too painful. Now, Kastara's passing bore no pain at all. He knew she was all right, and hoped that perhaps, when her work for her mistress was done, she might quietly come visit him here, now and again.

  He smiled a little. "You must think me a poor father, bringing Allika to play in a place like this."

  "Not at all." Imitating him, Vervain lay back in the grass, her arms folded behind her head. "Cemeteries don't have to be frightening. They're very peaceful. Especially when they ring with the laughter of a happy little girl." She turned her head and smiled at him, lifting one hand to shade her eyes from the sun's glare.

  Allika scampered up to them at that moment. She was a tiny whirlwind. She paused to briefly kiss Deveren's forehead with a loud smack, repeated the gesture with Vervain, and then ran off again. The fat little puppy at her heels barked and jumped at her as she leaped up into the branches of an old, gnarled tree.

  "She keeps begging me to allow her to wear boy's clothes to play in," sighed Deveren. "I may have to surrender." Allika was now hanging from the branches by her knees. The pretty dress Deveren had bought her, covered with dirt and grass stains, flopped over her head.

  "Be grateful she's healthy and happy, Deveren. It's what all parents pray for."

  Taking a deep breath, Deveren turned to look at her. "When I lost Kastara and our baby, I thought I'd lost everything. I wanted very little else from life but to be a husband and a father. Have you ever longed for a family, Vervain?"

  "I am a Blesser. Such is denied to us while we serve the goddess."

  Deveren's heart sank. He turned away quickly, fearful that she would see his expression and interpret it correctly. Apparently, though, he was not quick enough.

  Vervain sat up, placing a soft hand on his arm. "You, alone of all men in Verold, know what it means to serve Health. You know what a duty it is."

  Deveren nodded. He did know, but the knowing did not help ease his growing unhappiness.

  "As long as I hear Health calling me to serve her, I am oath-bound to commit
myself to no lesser being," the Healer continued. "But," and she squeezed his arm, coaxing him to face her, "there will come a day when the call will not come. And on that day, I will lay aside my scarlet robes of a Blesser and become merely a Healer-a woman free to give her hand where her heart has already gone."

  Surprise and pleasure jolted Deveren. He gazed at her, hardly daring to believe his ears. Vervain's smile grew. He was seized with a longing to lean over and kiss her, but hesitated, wondering if such a desire was, at this point in their lives, right or wrong. He remembered their last such encounter and shame flooded him.

  "Vervain," he stammered, "when you gave me the tincture…" He couldn't even say it. She reached up a gentle hand to brush his cheek.

  "You succumbed to evil, as I knew you would-as you had to if the cure were to work. That was not the Deveren I love, kissing me. This is."

  She leaned forward, pressing her lips, as scarlet and soft as her Blesser's robes, to his. And oh, it was right.

  The small gathering at Deveren's that night was not quite merry. Not yet. But it was a celebration, for at dawn the next day the quarantine would be lifted.

  Castyll, Damir, Pedric, and Vandaris were in attendance. The feast was too large to feed six people; Deveren had planned it that way. Some of Braedon's hungry would be fed with what Deveren's gathering did not consume.

  Deveren didn't do much talking. Instead, he observed. Castyll was fitting more and more into his father's shoes every day. Damir, his task in Braedon completed, would leave with the king to ride to Kasselton early in the morrow. Deveren knew that Damir was more than eager to see his family again. Vandaris had aged, but he was starting to get a little of his humor back, as was Pedric. Both men, young and old, no longer wore solely black clothing, though neither yet sported vibrant colors.