King's man and thief

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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.

Alone, then, the young king approached. He stepped forward and respectfully kissed the image of Love, then knocked on the door. After a moment, one of the Blesser's Tenders, a girl not much younger than the youthful Blesser herself, opened the door. She was as awkward as Adara herself had been just a few days ago, but she stood arrow-straight and her voice didn't tremble. The Tender wore a simple white gown, belted with a length of rope, and her feet were bare.

"Who comes to the Temple of Love?"

"I, Castyll Alhaidri Shahil Derlian, knock on Love's door," the young man replied, complying with the ritual. He did not use his title. He came now as a supplicant, not a king.

"What seek you, Castyll Derlian, within these walls?"

"I seek Love's Blesser."

"What would you have with her, Castyll Derlian?"

"I would be taught in the ways of Love, that I might better honor the goddess."

The Tender nodded. "It pleases Love. Enter in." She stepped aside and allowed the young king to pass into the coolness of the house. "Castyll Derlian, you have come as a boy to Love's Temple. By this time tomorrow, Love shall have made you a man."

Cheers broke out among the crowd. Castyll waved to his people, met Bhakir's eyes for a long moment, and then Love's Tender closed the door.

She indicated a table in the center of the room. It was laden with simple foodstuffs-bread and cheese, meat, fruit, wine. "Please, Castyll. Sit down. Take refreshment after your journey." "I thank you, Tender, but I must speak with the Blesser as soon as-"

"Within these walls," said the young girl with more dignity than her years would indicate, "you do not reign. Whatever you may be to the world outside, here you are but a humble subject of the goddess, like any other man. The Blesser will come to you at the time of her choosing. You cannot order her about at your whim."

Castyll raised his eyebrows. He was not offended, but he was slightly taken aback. He recovered quickly. "Your pardon, good Tender. I meant no offense. Certainly I will partake of the good food you have provided."

He wasn't hungry — in fact, his stomach was turning somersaults-but he sat down on the wooden bench at the table regardless. The Tender, satisfied that Castyll was going to abide by the rules, slipped quietly away. He poured himself a goblet of wine and drank, glancing around.

The windows and the door to the garden in the back stood wide open, letting a breeze circulate through the house. The fire was unlit, but the remains of one sullied the otherwise clean hearth. There were no rushes on the floor; rather thick woven rugs. As he continued to observe, a small cat wandered in from the garden. It paused, regarded Castyll, then slowly, regally approached him. It rubbed its smooth head against his leg, and Castyll heard the rumblings of a purr. He bent and petted the creature.

"Well, if you meet with Timmar's approval, then you are welcome indeed." It was Adara, of course. She had followed the beast in from the garden and now leaned against the doorway. Castyll was pleasantly surprised at what ten days as Blesser had done to the shy young girl he had seen invested.

She stood straighter now, and her movements were more composed and fluid. While she was still sadly plain, there was a dignity about her that cloaked her rough features with a beauty all its own. He smiled and bowed.

"Lady, you do me honor."

She met his smile, then her own faltered. Suddenly both young people realized the full awkwardness of the situation. Here they were, both virgins; one a king, the other a priestess. They were both young for the weight of their stations, and neither could rely on the other for a mature head and years of experience to steer them through this uncomfortable period.

Castyll was the first to recover. He strode swiftly to the Blesser, gathered the slim girl in his arms, and nuzzled at her ear. But what he said were not honeyed words of romance. "Are you loyal to your king?" he murmured.

Adara was thoroughly confused. Her arms crept up to embrace him as she replied softly, "Of course I am. That is why…"

"Then I must ask you to do something very dangerous," continued Castyll, continuing the charade of seduction lest a curious, giggling Tender was watching. "Is your bedchamber secure from prying eyes and ears?"

Love's Blesser pulled away, her hands on his chest, pushing him back slightly. "Yes," she said, a bit louder this time. "My room is private. We need have no fear of being observed at our pleasures."

Her hand dropped to his. Smiling coyly, though Castyll could see apprehension in her eyes, she led him through the door to her own bedchamber. When they were inside, she leaned on the door and turned, questions on her lips.

Castyll held up a warning finger. Carefully, he began to inspect the room. The bed, large enough for two and covered with soft blankets, had no canopies. No one could hide there. He checked Adara's wardrobe and finally peered outside, glancing about repeatedly before closing the shutters. Moving purposefully, he seized Adara's upper arms and gently but firmly steered her toward the bed.

She began to laugh. "Usually it is the Blesser who does the seducing, but…"

He laid a finger on her lips. Still pitching his voice soft, he began to speak.

"Things are not as they seem. I am a prisoner in my own castle. My counselor Bhakir murdered my father and he plans to murder me as well. He has cut me off from any official sources. He has dissolved the betrothal between myself and the princess of Byrn. I am nothing but his puppet. I believe he plans to make war on innocents, and I believe that after tonight I'll see nothing but the walls of a prison cell."

Her eyes widened. He removed his finger and she said softly, "But Your Majesty-how could this happen and we your people not know?"

"There is much that the people do not know," replied Castyll, his face grim. "But you must believe me. If I am ever to be a true king to my people I must escape tonight. It is my only hope." He sat back, letting her absorb what he had told her. She seemed stunned. Finally he said, still whispering, "I need your help."

"What… what can I do?"

"You can help me escape. I cannot lie to you. If they find you here tomorrow and me gone, they will interrogate you. Your only chance is to come with me. I know there are people who are still loyal to me. It's my hope that I can find them and rally them to my cause. They do not know," he said sadly. "Even some of my closest men think me happily here in Ilantha for the summer."

Adara edged back, unaware that she was putting the down pillow between herself and the young king. "But… I have my duty as a Blesser. I cannot abandon my Tenders. They are unsettled enough already, with the death of the previous Blesser. To lose me so soon

…"

Castyll realized with a growing sense of horror that he had made an enormous mistake. Adara would not willingly betray him, but he should have tried to escape without involving her. Far better to have lain with her as was expected and have left like a thief in the night. Now it was too late. She would be subjected to mind-reading, he felt certain. And very few mortals, certainly not a person with no magical training, could resist that. She would therefore betray him in the end anyway, if she did not come with him.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry. I should never have done this to you. It's only…" What? Only that he missed speaking heart to heart with someone? That he was weary of guarding his true plans? That he yearned for someone to say it's all right, you're doing the right thing, I understand'!

She gazed at him for a long moment, then reached to touch his face. "How horrible this must be for you. I cannot imagine… Of course I will help. I serve Love, and part of our training is to know and understand our own hearts. My heart wants to help, even if that means abandoning my duties. My Tenders will be confused and hurt, but I will serve my goddess best this way."

A lump rose in Castyll's throat and he hugged her tightly. "Thank you," he whispered. "No harm will come to you. I give you my word."

"Speak not so," she warned, "for you tempt the gods when you do."

He nodded, acknowledging the truth of what she said. Castyll took a deep breath. "It would be best to wait until after dark," he said. "I know there will be guards posted."

Adara's brows drew together angrily. "Not around the temple of Love!" she said indignantly. "It would be a blasphemy!"

Castyll nodded sadly. 'These are men who have no sense of honor." He watched her reaction, knowing that this, more than anything had yet said, brought home to her the depths to which his captors would sink.

She glanced down at her hands clenched around the pillow, and deliberately disentangled them. She straightened, and jutted her chin slightly forward. "You came for a purpose other than flight," she reminded him.

Suddenly, Castyll's mouth went dry. He felt shy and awkward, and judging by the flush in Adara's cheeks, she did as well. "True," he managed.

Her mouth opened, her small pink tongue creeping out to moisten suddenly dry lips. "Nightfall… is a long time away."

Castyll's heart began to race. No, Adara was no beauty like his beloved Cimarys. But she was brave, like Cimmy, and kind. And she was the Blesser of Love. To not lie with her tonight would be an insult. Besides, Castyll found that he was more than ready for her. Their gazes locked and he moved toward her over the soft bed.

"A very long time," he agreed. He gently pressed his lips to hers, felt the soft swell of her small breasts as she arched up toward him.

And for a time, all thoughts of flight were banished from their minds.

Castyll started awake much later. The room was completely dark. His jerky movements awakened Adara, who awoke with a gasp. "Castyll?"

"Shh, I'm sorry. I didn't remember where I was for a moment." She moved toward him, her skin soft as silk, her warm nakedness inviting him back to sleep-or sport. He placed a kiss on her hand and slid out of the bed. "It is time we were gone."

He groped about for his clothes as she rose to light the lamps. She moved gracefully, without embarrassment, as the lights revealed her nakedness to his eyes. Seeing her thus brought the image of Cimarys to his mind, and suddenly tears clouded his vision. He wiped at his eyes. At once Adara was there.

"What is it?" she asked, concerned.

He took a steadying breath. "It's just… forgive me, Adara. But lying with you only makes me want my Cimarys all the more. I miss her so much."

He had thought he would hurt her with the words, but instead Adara flung her arms about his neck. "Oh, Castyll, thank you!" Tears were in her own eyes. "This was my first… I was afraid I couldn't…" Seeing his confusion, she replied, "A Blesser hopes that the man she has initiated into lovemaking will take that skill to his own bed, share it with his beloved to their mutual joy. I am so happy that you are even more in love with your Byrnian princess after being with me!"

He grinned back at her and kissed her soundly on the lips. "Then know, dear Adara — that when your king lies with his queen, we will both think of you… and thank you. But we must hurry. I know not the hour."

Adara dressed quickly. "I have nothing but my Blesser's robes," she said apologetically. "Do you have a cloak?" She nodded. "Then wrap yourself in that. Be quiet-I'm going to take a look around first."

He went to the door, opened it and peered out. It was dark in the main room of the temple. But he couldn't just walk out. Castyll went to the window and gently opened the shutters. And stared, shocked, into the hooded features of a man waiting outside the window.