King's Man and Thief (7 page)

She lurched forward and knelt, trembling. "Oh, clever boy!" she said softly. Castyll had received the message— and left one of his own. Jemma examined the herbs.

Tarragon stood for ferocious strength. Horehound was a Mugwort—protection. King's Lady—the royal plant. Lad's Love—devotion. Paisley—revelry and victory. And finally, a plant imported from neighboring Byrn, the flowering borage.

I
am fighting the good fight, holding my own against the Snake. But I need protection. I send love to Cimarys. We will celebrate together
—
contact Byrn.

At least, Jemma assumed that was the message. The sentiments were logical and typical of Castyll. Jemma raised her gray head and peered about as best she could. She could see no one, but that did not mean that there was no one present. Guards were posted everywhere around Seacliff these days. Jemma suppressed a shudder and began to carefully pick the herbs, cutting them with the small knife consecrated by Health for that express purpose, and placing them in the small basket she carried. She was filled with elation that her plan to communicate with the trapped Castyll had worked, and harvesting the plants was the last thing on the herbalist's mind. To have been to the garden and not gathered herbs, however, would immediately arouse suspicion in anyone who happened to see her.

When she had gathered enough to allay any doubts, she left her own simple message: a large pile of sage and a pinch of wormwood. She hoped that the amount of sage would make Castyll recall a well-known quote: "Why should a man die when sage flourishes in his garden?" Wormwood was often used to fight off the effects of poison. In other words, as long as there was someone in contact with Castyll, the youth should continue to fight, knowing he was not alone.

Jemma rose, slowly and with much wincing. She was nearly eighty, and though her potions and frequent offerings to Health had kept her mobile and healthy, the crippling pain in her joints served as sharp reminders that Lady Death was also nearby.

"Wait awhile, Lady," she said softly as she walked out of the garden into the deepening twilight. "I have tasks to do. You know that as well as I. Come for me when I am done, and I'll not refuse your embrace."

The evening that lay ahead of her would have tasked even a younger woman, but the old Healer did not shirk her duty. She walked the long distance, over a mile, from Seacliff to the port area of the town of Ilantha. It was a long trek, but riding a horse, though she had done it often in her youth, now proved too painful a means of transportation. Better aching muscles from a walk than raging fire in her joints from the horse's rolling, jolting gait. Besides, it was a pretty view. The sun was nearly gone and Jemma was headed due west, straight into the splendid vision of the resting day.

She continued through the rest of the royal garden, passed the guards of the encircling stone wall with a nod of recognition, and continued down the hard-packed dirt road toward the town and the dockyard. Most of the stores, with the exception of hostelries and taverns, were closing for the day. A baker, about to pull his shutters to, saw Jemma and smiled a greeting.

Jemma's eyes were failing, but her nose was sharp, and she breathed in the sea-scented air with a smile. She had spent most of her life inland, and the ocean was still a sweet pleasure to her. Once she had reached the dock, she rented the use of a small, single-person dory and a lantern. The fisherman knew Jemma, and the old woman's excuse that "there were certain seaweeds that I need to harvest after dark for my work" was accepted without question. Not for the first time, Jemma was glad that she had been born with the gift of Healing and had chosen to follow the goddess. Eccentricities went unquestioned in Blessers.
known antidote for snakebite.

The sun was gone now, though the stars had yet to appear. The ships anchored in the harbor bore lit lamps, and for now it was enough for Jemma to see by. She rowed out onto the velvety black waters of the Ver ocean. There were always plenty of fishing boats crowding the harbor, and recently Jemma had noticed an increasing number of official military vessels.

The darkness grew, and the other ships dwindled as she left them behind, until the Healer's small lamp was the only real light at hand. The lanterns on the ships and the lights of the town were far away and looked like summer's glowflies. Finally, Jemma stopped when she felt she was a safe distance from the port. Then she fumbled for the anchor, tying a large bunch of sage securely around it. Grunting with the effort, Jemma heaved the anchor overboard. It splashed softly, then sank, the rope snaking into the water after it.

A few moments later, the rope moved, pulling taut. There came a sudden jerk, and then the little craft fairly skimmed along the water until it was a good half mile away from shore.

In the warm yellow light cast by the single candle in the lantern, the ocean rippled. A sleek, human-looking head broke the water's surface. Candlelight illuminated slanted eyes and pointed ears. In daylight, Jemma knew, the creature's hair would be dark green, like the color of seaweed, and his skin a pale blue. His eyes were emerald.

"You are lucky I am here," said the creature, in a voice as soft and soothing as the waves on the shore. "I was not expecting you tonight, my friend." He smiled, and the gesture lightened the solemnity of his wise face. He extended a strong, sleek arm and handed a bunch of seaweed to Jemma. The Healer carefully placed the ocean gift in the bottom of the boat.

"I may need you every night from now on, Darshirin," apologized Jemma. "The king has deciphered the code, and we will be in daily contact. He's holding up well, but he's frightened." "Of course," said Darshirin politely, though he knew little of the landspeople's politics.

"Give Damir this message, found at evening on Lisdae: 'I am fighting the good tight, holding my own against the Snake. But I need protection. I send love to Cimarys. We will celebrate together— contact Byrn.'"

Darshirin nodded his head and repeated the message verbatim. "Anything else?"

"Not for the present. Darshirin —I know it was unusual enough for you to trust Damir. I appreciate the trust you put in me, as well. I know the People of the Sea don't get involved with us land dwellers much—"

Darshirin, bobbing up and down on the waves, shook his head and gently lifted a webbed hand in a gesture of courteous denial. "I owe Damir my life. To help him where I can is nothing; and you share his good spirit. And to help bring about the downfall of the
pirates,"
and his sea-soft voice now sounded like a crashing wave on the word he loathed, "we would do anything."

Jemma gazed at her friend with sympathy. The pirates, she knew, hunted the People of the Sea. Humans were almost as frightened of them as of the elves, these beautiful ocean inhabitants who could turn from human form to dolphin shape in a heartbeat. The pirates often sold the People of the Sea to greedy organizers of traveling shows. The pitiful creatures, floating listlessly in the motionless touring pools, would always die after a brief bout of grief at being separated from the ocean. Farther north, past Byrn, it was said the ratlike monsters called the Ghil enslaved the sea-people as well, forcing them to harvest the ocean's bounties for them.

"King Castyll will stop the pirates, won't he?" Concern was in Darshirin's voice. "Castyll's a good lad. And when he learns of the service you've done him, I'm certain he'll do everything he can to put an end to the slavery of your people."

Again Darshirin smiled, and again Jemma's heart swelled with affection for the magnificent being. Without another word, Darshirin sank back into the arms of the ocean. There was a splash, and Jemma saw the flip of a dolphin's tail break the surface a few feet away. Then the rope was pulled taut, tugged by Darshirin's powerful dolphin's beak, and the little boat reversed course and skipped along the waves in the direction of the shore.

Sweet Health,
thought Jemma to herself as she rowed the rest of the way to the dock, I
am getting too old for this.
She frowned to herself. Wasn't her stock of joint salve getting low? She would have to check.

Her mind still on her medicines, she retied the small boat in its proper place, picked up her basket, and began to walk down the now-deserted streets. Home was only a few minutes away.
This is good,
Jemma thought.
Not up to another long walk. When I get home
—

Her heart began to pound. She realized that now the streets were no longer deserted. Six armed guardsmen were waiting, concealed by shadows. Summoning her courage and straightening to her diminutive height, Jemma gazed at them in turn.

"Good evening, sirs. How may old Jemma the Healer help you?"

"There is sickness in Seacliff," said one. His voice hitched slightly. "The king is ill. Bhakir sent us to find you."

Fear coursed through Jemma's veins. Flight would be foolish. These men wanted her, and they would have her. That Bhakir sent them to find her, she had no doubt, but she knew there was no sickness involved. Somehow she must have been discovered. She only hoped that young Castyll was still all right.

"If King Castyll is ill, of course I shall come." At least, as long as she kept up the pretense, they would delay the inevitable pain. Keeping her head high, her long gray braid falling behind her to her knees, Jemma quietly went with the guards who had been sent to imprison her.

* * * * *

Alone in the small room that was now his bedchamber, Castyll lay in his bed. He was not asleep, but merely waiting for the dead time of night. When that hour came, he quietly left his canopied bed, soundlessly pushing aside the heavy draperies and moving with a deep grace that would have surprised him had he noticed it. Bare feet sank into the soft, thick fur of a mountain-cat rug. Naked, he walked across the rug, steeled himself for the cold stone of the floor, and went to the single candle that sat, unlit, on a small table by the door.

Drawing up a chair, Castyll eased himself down. The old piece of furniture did not creak in the slightest. He winced but a little as the chill wood touched his buttocks. Placing his broad palms on his thighs, Castyll stared at the candle, and concentrated.

When he had been three years old, he had been given the Test. Then, it had been simple: He had merely slipped his small child's arms into an adult-sized pair of arm bracers. Had he had the talent for magic, the bracers would have lit up with a warm, red hue. But nothing had happened, and all assumed that Castyll had, sadly, not been blessed with the talent for magic that graced so many of the Derlian kings.

But King Shahil hadn't accepted the ruling of the bracers, and he had encouraged Castyll to keep working, to keep learning, hoping that perhaps the talent would reveal itself later. One of the simplest tricks, Castyll knew, was lighting a candle using only the force of one's will. This would reveal the talent for either hand or mind magic. Mind magic would create the illusion of flame on the candle; hand magic would make the candle actually burn. The bracers were locked far away from his reach now. Only the candle remained.

He stared at it, as he had every night of his captivity, willing its blackened wick to spark to new life. And in that warm, soft glow of a single candle, Castyll's life would change forever. He would free himself and avenge his father's murder, ease tensions with Byrn, claim his birthright, and wed the Byrnian princess he so loved.

But the candle stayed dark. At last, his eyes filled with grit and aching with want of sleep, Castyll returned to his bed as stealthily as he had left it. He laid his dark head on the feather pillow and slept the sleep of exhausted youth. As he slept he dreamed of Princess Cimarys, uncrowned, her hair falling in an ebony cascade about her slim shoulders. She wore a flowing robe of fragile gossamer, and she smiled at him as she walked barefoot through an herb garden with the scent of the sea surrounding her.

And Hope/Despair stood before him, but poor Tomai did not know which one he faced. The little boy Hope smiled reassuringly, but the old hag Despair leered. They held out the dagger and said, "There is but one place where you are sure to find the Tiger."

"Ah!" cried Tomai, his face pale. "So you would have me hunt the Tiger in his own lair? " 

—
Byrnian folk tale, Tomai and the Tiger

Braedon was an old city, one of the oldest in Byrn, existing by its present name and in similar incarnations for the better part of eight centuries. The name literally meant "place on the hill," and harkened back to a time when men had used the natural harbor and protective ring of surrounding mountains mainly as a defense against the Ghil. Trade had come later, after the more immediate struggle to eliminate the Ghil eventually drove the foul creatures ever northward, and humans rose in ascendancy.

Now the quiet natural harbor of centuries past was a bustling place of merchants and sailors, and those who made their living off of them. A few travelers, Damir among them, availed themselves of the perfectly serviceable road called Ocean's View that cut straight through Braedon and continued east through the mountains that protectively encircled the harbor city. The three ill-fated councilmen, brutally murdered by Bear and his cohorts, had been traveling along this road. But by far the greatest traffic in the city came by ship.

The worst parts of town were located "so near the water as t' be wet theyselves," as some of the inhabitants boasted. These were inns and taverns that catered to the needs of the often harsh men who did the actual sailing of the vessels. The farther east in Braedon one went, the better the environs grew. Continuing along Ocean's View, one passed the temples erected to the seven deities of Byrn and Mhar: Love, Light, Health, Traveler, Hope/Despair, Death, and Vengeance. Here, too, on a raised dais, were the stocks and, though not as often used, the gallows.

In the center of this area was a huge stone pillar called the Godstower. A single iron bell, over two hundred years old, hung from the top of the construct. The Godstower bell was rung seven times each day by the Blessers of each faith. Dawn was Light's time. Midmorning belonged to Love. Health's bell rang at midday. Traveler's Blesser pulled the rope in the afternoon. Twilight, that time of not quite day or night, belonged to the twin-countenanced Hope/Despair. Death sounded her knell when night was well on its way, and the middle of the darkness was Vengeance's domain. The gods lent their names, too, to the days of the week: Lisdae, Losdae, Healsdae, Trvsdae HoDesdae, Desdae, and Venedae.