'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,
