King's man and thief

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Castyll had no idea that the majority of the people he ruled smelled quite so bad. The odor of unwashed bodies vied with the reek of meat that had turned, the choking smoke of dozens of pipes and, most unpleasant of all to the young king's innocent nose, the cloying, almost overwhelming perfumes that the prostitutes used to disguise their lack of hygiene.

Castyll had never been in better spirits.

He had to nearly shout to be heard over the hubbub of laughter, chatter, and off-key music that filled the "house."

"I hardly picture you being at home among such company," he said to Damir.

The other man smiled slightly. "I'm able to blend in where I must," he replied. "As are my men," he added with a smile. The men who had helped Castyll escape had accompanied them, and presently, with their lewd talk and loud laughter, the formerly silent killers were indistinguishable from the regulars.

"Are all these women spies?" Castyll asked, looking from one painted face to another. Some of the women were in various stages of undress, as their clients examined what they'd be paying for, and Castyll felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. He hastily returned his attention to his friend.

"Every last one, gods bless them. A few are professional spies and turned their, er, hands to this as readily as posing as lost nobility in a king's court. Others were working here before and proved to be easily bought."

"Are they… can you trust them? And what about the men who… their…"

"Their clients?" finished Damir, chuckling a little. "I think it's rather clear that they are not interested in espionage at the moment; and even if they were, they are too far away to hear our conversation. All the whores are loyal to me-and therefore to you. This is probably the safest place in Your Majesty's entire kingdom." He raised his frothing mug of beer in a salute.

Grinning, Castyll lifted his own mug and took a sip of the bitter brew. Like the smells of the place, the taste of the beer was crude and unrefined. But oh, it was a taste of true freedom for the first time in what seemed like years.

"Now tell me what has happened," Damir requested, settling back to listen.

Castyll lowered his eyes for a moment, then began. He recounted Shahil's "accidental" death. The deaths and demotions of many who were loyal to the late king. The sudden disappearance of Jemma without warning. The traditional summer holiday in Ilantha that had become a prison term. His attempt at thwarting Bhakir with the speech a few days ago, and the lucky breeze that had so obligingly snatched the scripted speech from Castyll's slack grasp. Bhakir's sudden, seemingly unfounded confidence of recent days. Castyll's conviction that there were yet many who were loyal to him, who did not see in Bhakir the monster that lurked beneath the surface. And finally, his own deep suspicion that, if he did not escape now, he never would.

Damir listened without comment, nodding now and then. Finally, when Castyll had finished, he said, "I have come to offer you asylum. My men and I can spirit you away from here by the time Bhakir knows to begin looking for you. The king of Byrn has offered his support and his army to back it up. And," Damir leaned forward, a slight smile on his thin lips, "Cimarys eagerly awaits a chance to see you again."

A lump rose in Castyll's throat. 'The letter I sent — she was not hurt by it?"

"None of us believed you wrote it of your own free will. Cimarys has kept her faith in you."

Suddenly Castyll reached across the table and grasped Damir's hand hard. "Thank the gods. Knowing that she still believes in me gives me the strength to do what I feel I must. Damir… I thank you and your country for your offer of aid. But if I left, it would send the wrong message to my people. It would leave Bhakir utterly in power with no one to stand against him, no one to protect those who still follow me. You know how he twists things around with that cursed clever tongue of his. If I abandon my country now, he will have poisoned the people against me by the time I could return. No. I must remain here, and strike soon. He will not expect that."

Damir allowed himself another of his small, cryptic smiles. "I suspected as much. That's why I told the Blesser what I did."

"And that is?"

"After she has been interrogated with someone who can read her thoughts — and you know and I know Bhakir will locate someone who can-she will be left alone. A few hours later, Adara will have a desire to visit her sister Blesser in Jarmair. She will travel to the capital and find herself at Castle Derlian. She will ask for either Maren or Kester, and, because of her position, her request for an audience will be granted. Once she verifies that she is speaking to Maren or Kester alone, her memory of her night with you will come back to her-and those whom you trust will finally know your true plight."

Castyll suppressed a desire to whoop aloud with joy. Damir continued with the plan he had "outlined" to the unaware Adara, and Castyll's delight grew. When Damir had finished, Castyll could practically feel the weight of an earned crown sitting atop his brow. Damir wet his throat with the cheap ale and said something that took his drinking companion totally by surprise.

"And in the meantime, we can work on your magic skills."

Castyll blinked. If it were anyone other than Damir — Damir, who had just proved his friendship and worth a hundred times over-he would have thought the comment an insulting jibe. He replied stiffly, "I have no magical skills. The Derlian line of wizard-kings died with my father."

Damir shook his head. "Oh, no, Your Majesty."

"But… damn it, night after night I have sat and tried to light the cursed candle in my bedchamber. I failed the Test with the bracers as a child, and I've never exhibited any talent whatsoever." "Did it ever occur to you that you might be trying too hard?"

Castyll did not reply, but apparently his uncomprehending stare was answer enough. Damir continued. "I've seen this before-not connected with magic, but with marksmanship, for instance, or other skills. Sometimes, one can try too hard, and the very pressure of the effort undercuts any hope of success." He leaned forward and spoke quietly, but very intently, so that Castyll could not possibly misunderstand.

"You spoke of the breeze that so conveniently tore the speech out of your hands, when you wished not to have to deliver it."

"Well, yes, but-"

"I have seen many things in my life. I have grown to be highly suspicious of coincidences. I believe that you called that breeze. You were not thinking, 'if only a gust of wind, blowing at a certain speed and strength, would come right here and be of sufficient force to snatch away this speech.' You merely wanted to find an excuse to deliver your own message. And you made that excuse."

The hair along Castyll's forearms began to prickle. "Damir, you are dangling my dearest hope in front of my eyes. I hope you're not toying with me."

"I would not do such a thing."

"No," Castyll said slowly. "No, you wouldn't. I… I hardly dared to hope any more." "Dare, Your Majesty. Dare."

The examiner sighed, removed his fingers from the young woman's temples, and told his master what he knew he did not wish to hear.

"She's telling the truth, milord. When she woke up, he was gone. She really does have no idea where he might be."

Bhakir smothered his anger. Cursed little royal brat. He should have killed the young pup when he had the chance. Accidents happened, after all.

The two little Tenders, huddled close to one another, watched with round eyes. They, too, had been subjected to an examination; they, too, had been exonerated. Now they stared, silent, at their mistress and the big, black-bearded man who had come to see her.

"You must be a very deep sleeper, Blesser," Bhakir said in a voice that sounded perfectly sincere to those who did not know him well. "Two of my guardsmen lie dead in your garden. Yet you did not waken."

The skinny little Blesser shrank back still further. "I did not know. I shall pray for them and their families. Is Castyll-why would he do such a thing?" She seemed genuinely confused, and Bhakir reluctantly dismissed the idea that she was a collaborator. Women, other than Healers, had no magic. There was no way Adara could have "lied" to his mind-reader.

"I fear that our good king may have been kidnapped," he said gravely. Adara's hands flew to her mouth in horror. "That was why I had guards stationed about your Holy House-though I know that it is against custom to do so. Byrn…" He sighed and shook his dark head helplessly. "They pose as our allies, but my dear young Blesser, I must tell you that they are no friends to Mhar. I have long feared that such a catastrophe would occur. But to think that even Byrnians would so blaspheme as to kidnap a king from a Holy House!"

"If this is indeed what happened," murmured Adara, "then their souls are lost in truth. Your Grace, please-if you have word of Castyll, let me know. I would see him safe."

"As would I, dear lady." He bowed as low as the huge bulk about his midsection would permit. "My men and I shall leave you in peace now. Thank you for cooperating with us."

He led the way out into the bright, midmorning sunshine. With an effort, he heaved himself into his saddle, his mind working furiously. He slowly motioned for the two guards to ride at his side and the mind-reader to bring up the rear, and the four horses clopped down the cobblestone way toward the palace.

To the guard on his left, Bhakir said softly, "Keep an eye on the girl. Follow me until we are well out of sight, then slip off the horse and double back."

"Certainly, milord, but may I ask your suspicions? The girl knows nothing."

"No, but Castyll may try to reach her — turn her to his cause. If he returns, I want someone there to capture him. It's doubtful, but right now I will not take any risk. Keep the Blesser in your sight at all times, understood?"

"Aye, sir."

To the guard on his right, Bhakir said, "Ride up ahead. I want every road sealed off, every ship that docks at the Ilantha port inspected."

"Quietly, sir, or publicly?"

"Very publicly. Put the word out that he's been kidnapped by Byrnians. Put a reward out for any sightings. If he shows his head anywhere, I want someone to report it. And if he disappears without a trace, well, we can turn that to our advantage as well. What bothers me most about this is, he had help." His eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "What do our spies say about Damir Larath? I was suspicious of his coming so close to our borders in the first place."

"He is still in Braedon, milord. He was apparently ill, but has recovered."

"You're certain?"

"He was spotted just a day ago at a public ceremony, milord."

Bhakir swore. "I would have been willing to wager he was involved directly in this — it's just the sort of thing I'd expect from him. Too clean. But I suppose not. Indirectly, though…" His voice trailed off. Castyll might already be well on his way to Byrn. Time, then, to take the hunt to Braedon, and watch for him there. And, mused the counselor to himself, if the young king of Mhar were indeed in Braedon, then in a very few days, Bhakir's worries would be over.

"My lord Bhakir!" The voice was youthful, strong, the voice of one used to being obeyed. Bhakir stiffened, then turned slowly in the saddle to see who had hailed him.

Striding up boldly to him and his guards was the Blesser of Vengeance. "We have business, you and I." The face turned up to Bhakir was handsome, with thick black brows and a strong mouth. Anger snapped in the dark eyes.

Bhakir looked around uneasily. Several people had paused to look at the unusual sight. Mentally, Bhakir cursed the man a thousand times, then smiled ingratiatingly. "Greetings, Blesser. And what business might that be?"

The Blesser had reached him now. His arms were folded and he stared at the mounted counselor. 'The business of blasphemy."

Bhakir felt a chill. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"My god has revealed to me that you are taking his name in vain. That you are doing something of which he does not approve. You may tread men beneath your heel, my lord, but you defy a god at your dreadful peril. Especially when that god is the mighty and implacable Vengeance."

Bhakir looked concerned. "If I have offended, then I ask forgiveness and to be shown what it is that I have done wrong. Blesser, will you come to Seacliff tonight and pray with me?"

The man's tense face relaxed somewhat. "Well," he said, slightly mollified, "I am bound by my oaths to help those who ask for it. Very well. I will be there at sunset. But don't think that false piety will spare the Sword of Vengeance," he added.

"Of course not," replied Bhakir. "Truly, I would atone for whatever sins I may have committed. May I expect you at sunset?"

The Blesser's eyes searched Bhakir's face, then he nodded. Bhakir inclined his head, then gently squeezed his mount, continuing the ride. He said nothing to his guards, and after a moment, the one on the right rode ahead while the one on his left slowed, then circled back, per their lord's instructions. The mind-reader kicked his mount and came to ride alongside Bhakir. The counselor remained silent. There was no way of knowing what the Blesser really knew. Not yet.

But come sunset, Bhakir would have Garith use his "methods of persuasion" on the man. And then, when they had learned all there was to learn, Bhakir would order the Blesser killed. He'd gone too far to let one loose-tongued, arrogant priest ruin it all.

Alone with her young Tenders, the Blesser of Love brushed out her long hair thoughtfully. Things were very unsettled. Perhaps she needed some advice from another.

"I think I will go visit Love's Blesser in Jarmair," she said to her Tenders. "Can you ready my things for the trip?"

Deveren drummed his fingers on the table. He had no interest in the fine food before him, but he absently watched Kyle eat heartily.

The resemblance truly was uncanny. With the wig, putty nose and other makeup tricks, Kyle was almost a mirror image of Damir. He had most of the gestures down and had captured Damir's precise manner of speaking. If Deveren closed his eyes slightly, it could indeed almost be Damir across from him at the table. Kyle had even managed to fool the servants by keeping out of their way as much as possible. When he did come in contact with them, it was usually only at meals-times when the servants' attention was occupied by the food and the serving of it, not in looking closely at their master's brother.

The first two public appearances — token things, really- had gone off without a hitch. Fortunately there had been no parties, nothing involving people who knew Damir well and would have a chance to speak with Kyle at length and up close. If only Damir would return in time for the Midsummer Festival, all would be well.

Traditionally, Braedon's Midsummer Festival was a time of good-natured cheer and banter. Deveren, though, had now been with the thieves long enough to know that it was also a prime opportunity for crime. But even the thieves of Braedon seemed to get into the joyful spirit of things. He knew of no violent crimes that had been perpetrated during the event over the past years. A great many thefts, yes, but no murders or even attacks.

This year, he mused darkly, staring into his goblet of wine, could well be different. There had been one attempt on his life. There ought to be more. The very lack of a second attempt at murder had Deveren unsettled. There could only be one reason-he was no longer deemed a threat. And that was actually even a more frightening thought. It meant that whoever had tried to kill him now felt it was no longer necessary to remove him-that the would-be killer had found another means to his goal.

The rat.

Deveren suppressed a shudder. If one of his thieves was trafficking in that sort of dark magic, then Deveren knew he was right to be afraid.

Who was it? Freylis? Khem, who had kept to himself and whom Deveren didn't know well? Someone else?

He took a gulp of the wine. It didn't help.

"Your pardon, Lord Larath," came the voice of Millia, the cook's young daughter. "But… there's someone come to see you."

"Who is it?" asked Deveren, tensing.

The girl frowned. "It's… it's a child, sir." Deveren smothered a grin at the slightly superior tone of voice. Millia was a child herself, a mere ten years of age. "She says she comes from the Blesser of Health with news."

Hope flooded through Deveren. "Very good, Millia. Send her in to the library and I'll speak with her there. No doubt," he added for the benefit of Millia, Kyle, and other ears which might be listening, "she brings a cure for those nasty headaches I've been having."

A few moments later, Millia showed Allika to the library. It was all Deveren could do not to gape openly at the change wrought by just two days in the Blesser's charge.

She was clothed in a simple but clean brown dress, probably loaned from one of Vervain's tenders. Her face was clean, showing Deveren for the first time how white and pink her skin was. Her shortcropped black hair had been combed into obedience, and gleamed. On her feet were small brown boots, and her back was straight. Her eyes sparkled with delight and she rushed into Deveren's arms, hugging him.

"Don't I look pretty?" she crowed immodestly.

"Little Squirrel, you look beautiful," he told her truthfully, planting a kiss on shiny black hair that smelled of herbs and sunlight.

She grinned, and it warmed Deveren's heart to see the impish sparkle in her eyes again. He'd feared that her laughter and sense of play had burned to ashes along with her beloved doll, but clearly that was not the case. "Vervain has been taking good care of you."

"She's nice," agreed Allika readily. "She's tired, though. She stays up late and gets up early. Got black circles round her eyes."

"I don't doubt it," said Deveren.

"But she says to tell you that she's got good news. She says," and Allika thought carefully before continuing, "she says, Tell Deveren that I believe I have perfected the tinc- tincture-but I will need to test it on someone. Ask Deveren if he knows of anyone who would be willing to undergo such a test. I don't think it will be harmful, even if it doesn't work.' That's what she said."

And Deveren was certain it was, word for word. He was silent for a moment, thinking. Allika waited patiently. Deveren again marveled at the sight of her, remembering the angry, violent, squalling creature he had lugged by sheer physical force to the Healer's temple; recalled her rage, her pain when she tried to apologize Suddenly Deveren's thoughts flashed back to that dreadful day of Lorinda's funeral. He saw again Pedric standing in front of him, screaming angrily, froth on his lips and hate in his eyes. The poisonous, cruel words sounded again in his ears.

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?… There's nothing left of her now but decaying flesh… 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 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.