King's man and thief

CHAPTER THREE

The summer day was beautiful, the breeze soft and fragrant as it caressed the down-covered cheeks of Castyll Alhaidri Shahil Derlian, king of the country of Mhar. The young royal's expression, though, was better suited to the harshness of the winter months. His face was pale and as hard as the flagstone path that led from the aptly named Castle Seacliff to its surrounding garden.

Behind Castyll, at a respectful distance, walked two men armed with swords. They were tall, though not as tall as the young giant of a king they guarded, and their faces were weatherworn and as hard as Castyll's. The two men were like dual shadows, and since his father's death Castyll had scarcely had a moment when they, or men like enough to them to be their doubles, were not with him. They were ostensibly his guards, posted out of concern by Counselor Bhakir, Castyll's regent.

"Since your dear father's untimely demise," Bhakir had moaned when Shahil was barely cool, "I fear for your life, Your Majesty. You should be guarded, at least until the crown is securely upon your head. Sweet Health alone knows what I would do should anything happen to you while you were in my care."

Like what happened to my father, when he was in your care? Castyll thought to himself bitterly. An accident, they called it; a bone stuck in the royal throat. But Castyll had been there when his father choked to death; had seen no bone in the soft pheasant meat upon which Shahil had dined. He had, though, been helpless witness to the dying convulsions of a great man, and had gotten a whiff of a bitter almond scent from Shahil's plate before it was whisked away.

He knew at that moment, with Bhakir sobbing loudly and falsely, that his own life was in danger. He and Shahil had come for a pleasant few months together at the summer palace, but the small, pretty castle had become a place of mourning and fear.

Castyll knew the men for what they were — guards indeed, but not for his protection. He was a prisoner here at Seacliff as surely as if Bhakir had clapped shackles on his arms and legs. His morning walk through the gardens and the occasional horseback ride-with his guards galloping at his side, of course-was all the freedom Bhakir would permit him.

The king's head ached with the tension in his back and shoulders, a constant tautness that would not leave him even in sleep. He tried to force himself to relax, but could not. He was not yet comfortable with his adult-sized body and did not know all its subtle secrets. At fifteen, Castyll had grown nearly a foot in the last year alone and had already attained six feet. He would grow more, he knew; Shahil had been a big man, and there was every indication that Castyll would follow in his footsteps. He was thin still, though, thin as a racing dog, and his guards outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Besides, they were armed. Castyll had been taught a healthy respect for weapons and was not about to force a confrontation.

He had come to the culinary herb section of the garden, one of his favorite spots. Seacliff's garden, a modest name for an area that encompassed several dozen acres, was an elaborate creation. It was precise and ordered, with each section clearly defined either by a low stone wall or carefully cut shrubbery. There were several sections-culinary herbs; medicinal and magical herbs; herbs grown solely for their dried fragrances; small flowers; climbing flowers; fruit trees; and flowering trees. Each of Verold's gods had his or her own small statue, and there were gorgeous topiaries, sundials, and stone benches scattered throughout.

Castyll had had herbalism taught to him as part of his magical training — training for a gift that, he was certain, would never come. All the other Mharian kings who possessed the talent had shown it at their Testing, undertaken at age three. Castyll hadn't had the ability then, and had never manifested it since. Still, Shahil was nothing if not optimistic. He had ordered Jemma, current royal herbalist and former Blesser of the goddess Health, to instruct Castyll in the meanings of the herbs harvested at Seacliff.

Now Castyll, bereft of both father and tutor, knelt alone in the garden and reached for a sprig of mint on which to chew. He hadn't seen Jemma since Shahil's death. He hoped the old woman had come to no harm; probably she, like everyone else with whom Castyll was close, had been ordered to keep her distance. Early on, in the chaos that had surrounded Shahil's death, Castyll had been able to send and receive messages from those loyal to him, even to and from Byrn. Now, though, he was surrounded by silence as stony as the walls that encased him.

The cold freshness of the plant burst in his mouth, and a shade of a smile touched the youth's lips. Jemma had urged him to touch, sniff, and taste everything in the culinary herb garden as he listened to "the lore of the plants." Such experimentation had encouraged learning in a child more efficiently than the normal adult response-"don't touch." Oh, Jemma, he thought, if only things were as they had always been, and you were here, telling me that basil means love, and thyme means courage, and…

He frowned slightly. Someone had been in the garden recently, and had damaged some of the herbs. He was about to raise his voice, call his guards' attention to the vandalism simply for something to do, when understanding broke in him with an almost physical shock.

The herbs that had been broken, their leaves plucked off and piled in small heaps around their roots, had not been selected at random. Castyll knelt, reaching for the small leaves of the thyme, forcing himself to move casually although his heart was thudding frantically.

Thyme — courage.

King's Lady-the "royal" plant.

Rosemary-remembrance.

Sage-salvation.

He read the message in his head: Have courage, King, you are not forgotten and you will be saved.

A lump welled in his throat. Jemma had not forsaken him! She was no longer in the honored position of Blesser, true, but she was still a wise and well-respected Healer. That she had the ear of many important people, Castyll knew. He blinked back quick tears and cleared the broken, bruised plants away. Turning his head slowly, the king glanced back at the two men. They were bored and talking casually to one another. Castyll puttering with the plants was something they saw every day.

Castyll closed his eyes and said a prayer to the positive aspect of the fickle god/dess, Hope/Despair. He also silently thanked the bountiful goddess Health, under whose dominion all healing plants came. Then, with apparent randomness, he selected herbs to leave his own message. He hoped that Jemma would be able to decipher the complex message.

He rose, brushing his dirtied hands against his fine linen shirt with the carelessness of his youth, and surveyed his handiwork. Obvious to a searcher; meaningless to one who was merely passing by. His task done, he decided to linger no longer and continued his stroll through the garden. But over the next half hour Castyll saw nothing of the beautifully landscaped trees and. shrubberies. His mind's eye was filled with the small, short, wonderful plants of the herb garden.

At last a slight cough from one of the guards alerted him that it was time for the midday repast. Castyll glanced up at the castle and grimaced inwardly, but went with them obediently enough. Seacliff was perched almost precariously at the top of a winding road. It looked as if it might be vulnerable to a siege, but its builders had been wise, creating dozens of tunnels beneath Seacliff that led to secret exits. Most of them had fallen into disuse in these peaceful times. The castle itself was pretty, almost fragile in appearance from the ocean, built of white stone and adorned with many slender towers. It had been Shahil's and Castyll's favorite of the royal dwellings. Now Castyll wondered if he could ever look upon Seacliff without pain.

Bhakir insisted that the king take his meals with him in the formal feast hall. Without colorful decorations and a crowd of revelers, the feast hall seemed to Castyll gloomy and enormous. As he entered, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, dried rushes crunched under his booted feet. Torches burned smokily and the windows were open. Bhakir, still hypocritically clad in the long, flowing robe of sky blue that was worn only by counselors, awaited him at the laden table.

Bhakir did not look like a devious usurper. He looked more like someone's benevolent uncle. He was short and rotund, and his bright brown eyes seemed to always sparkle with laughter. He wore a beard, black and neatly trimmed, as if to compensate for the thinning hairs that barely covered his pate. Like the beautiful carnivorous flowers that were said to bloom in the Elvenlands, Bhakir lured the unwary with that doughy, defenseless exterior and a sweet, seductive laugh that encompassed everyone present. It was only when he had you, thought Castyll with a burst of impotent anger, when you had delicately put your oh-so-fragile insect legs on the shiny surface of the vile creature's mouth, that the teeth would appear. They would crunch down with a suddenness so swift that some were doomed even before they knew the instrument of their betrayal.

Castyll had never been taken in. Neither had his father. Both king and prince had mistrusted the man from the moment he had been elected to the Council, but they were powerless to dismiss him. Had Bhakir been convicted of a crime, he would have been removed from any position of power within the Mharian government. But no breath of scandal touched him. And Castyll knew, with a heaviness that lay on his heart like something tangible, that there were those in Bhakir's inner circle who still held him blameless in the sudden death of the king.

"Ah!" boomed Bhakir, clapping his pudgy hands together in a facsimile of delight. "Good morning to you, Your Majesty. Did you enjoy your walk through the grounds?"

"Yes," replied Castyll curtly. He plopped into a hard, carved wooden chair and glared sullenly at Bhakir. He was the man's prisoner. That did not mean he had to show him courtesy.

Bhakir's dancing eyes narrowed, and for an instant, he bore a closer resemblance to a poisonous reptile than a jolly uncle. The king half expected the fat counselor to open his mouth and display a lolling, forked tongue.

Instead, Bhakir forced a smile. "Then you'll have worked up an appetite." Silk on satin was his voice. Strangers were charmed; Castyll felt a finger of fear prickle along the back of his neck. For now, Castyll thought, he'll take it from me. But not for much longer. How much time do I have left? he thought with a sudden stab of despair. Breathing suddenly became difficult. How many weeks, days, hours will it be until I am no longer necessary?

Bhakir gestured and unsmiling servants entered, bearing plates heaped high with food. A cold soup, made with the fresh fruits of the summer, was brought in a gorgeous ceramic bone tureen. The handles were modified lion's heads. Three varieties of bread were served, along with cold and hot roasts and fowl. Castyll watched the parade of food with faint disgust. The midday meal in his father's time had been, often as not, a crude repast of cold meat with a slice of bread wrapped around it, eaten on horseback or while at lessons. The spread before him was far more lavish than the occasion warranted. Bhakir, he knew, would eat twice as much as his king, who was a growing youth. Castyll said nothing, sitting stonily as food that would choke a glutton was piled high in front of him, obscuring the crest of Mhar that was painted on all the plates and serving dishes.

"I know how dining with only me to keep you company bores you, King Castyll," Bhakir said amiably as he spread a thick slice of bread with herb butter. "So I've decided to invite a few guests to join us over the next several weeks."

The constriction around Castyll\s chest that had sprung up without warning a few moments ago eased slightly. A few weeks. He hoped that Bhakir would stick to his timetable.

"I had thought," he ventured, "that we should be going back to Jarmair for my coronation." Bhakir appeared unruffled. "Soon enough, duties shall be laid at your feet, Your Majesty. Enjoy the summer, while you may."

Innocent tone of voice; sinister words. "Who will be joining us, then?" he asked, as he bit into an apple. A man is known by the company he keeps, he thought. Who does Bhakir consider suitable dinner company?

"I thought you might like to meet your new Commander of the Navy, Lord Carroc Zhael," said Bhakir. Butter clung in a greasy glob to his mustache for an instant before the pudgy, beringed hands lifted a linen napkin and delicately patted the offensive matter away. "He is so anxious to meet you."

The new Commander. Castyll had never had the dubious pleasure of meeting Lord Zhael, but he knew the name. Shahil had roared it angrily on more than a few nights. Zhael had marched swiftly up the ranks by legal but dishonorable means, stymied in his climbing only by the fact that the upper ranks of the military were staffed by men who were aware of Zhael's true nature. Now, with Shahil's death and the elimination of men who had been loyal to the crown, Zhael's way was clear. Castyll mentally filed the name away for information. How in Verold would he be able to tell Jemma about Zhael, using only herbs to convey the information?

"And Captain Porbrough is also invited." The brown eyes were intense, watching him with the coldness of a cat at a rat's hole. Castyll was instantly alert, though the name meant nothing to him. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the good captain," he hazarded.

A fat red smile appeared in the center of the beard. "You might know him better as Captain Cutter."

Castyll's eyes opened wide, and he was unable to disguise the horror in his voice as he gasped, "The pirate?"

Bhakir shook his head reprovingly. "Captain Porbrough has been the victim of vicious gossip. His deeds, while admittedly illegal, are hardly enough to classify him as a pirate! No, he came to me for clemency, and upon observing he was truly repentant, I granted it. Now he is eager to serve in Your Majesty's navy. I accepted the offer on your behalf." He cut a small, tidy piece of meat with his knife, speared it, and inserted it into his mouth.

So, Captain Porbrough's crimes didn't classify him as a pirate? Castyll knew the man had gotten the name "Captain Cutter" by his penchant for disfiguring anyone unlucky enough to fall into his hands. The prince himself had been present when one of his father's spies, his face a horrible, noseless revulsion, had reported on Captain Cutter's atrocities.

You bastard, thought Castyll. You cunning old bastard. If I had my father's magical skills… Furiously the king concentrated on an image in his head, a shockingly violent image for a youth usually so calm and controlled. He envisioned Bhakir exploding, his body parts igniting and burning away as they hurtled in various directions. He saw the image in his mind's eye and focused his energy on it.

Nothing. Castyll had no magic. His thoughts fell upon his dreaded enemy with as little effect as the sheepherder's black thoughts upon the wolf raiding his flock.

He licked lips suddenly gone dry and took a sip of the rose-flavored wine. "You're too kind, Bhakir," he said, making his voice sound as sincere as possible. "People will take advantage of you."

For an instant, the counselor seemed to see through Castyll's false flattery. But then, perhaps because Castyll was good at fooling people when he chose, or perhaps a pliant king was something he wanted to see, Bhakir smiled and cut another slice of the meltingly tender venison.

Castyll stared at his plate, certain that if he forced food down it would come right back up. He would be dining with traitors and pirates over the next few weeks. Desperately he hoped that Jemma would read the message-and somehow devise some means for Castyll's escape. He could not stay here. If he stayed, the Derlian line would assuredly end with him, and Mhar would have no one to stand between her and Bhakir's ravishment.

Jemma was permitted to harvest herbs from the garden twice daily — at daybreak and at dusk. As the sun sank slowly in the west, its magnificent departure uncontested by even a single cloud, the old woman hobbled into Sea-cliffs garden.

For three days now, she had positioned the herbs in their peculiar messages, arranging them at dawn. Each dusk had brought disappointment. Castyll had either not noticed them or had not deciphered their subtle code. Now, as she walked, leaning heavily on the oak staff, she saw that the herbs had been disturbed.

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 togethercontact 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.