EPILOGUE
A week had passed since Midsummer Night, and Braedon was beginning to show tentative signs of normalcy. The quarantine imposed by the City Council had eliminated the threat of a pandemic. Many still dealt with the grim task of gathering up the dead where they had fallen and loading the corpses onto what was called, with a trace of black humor, the Deathride. They would be taken out of the city limits and burned, to lessen any chance of the curse spreading. The resulting bonfire, visible from Braedon, kept the night skies from ever becoming fully dark. And when a cruel wind blew, ashes from the dead would fall like gray snow on the town.
But even in the somber aftermath, there were bright glimmers of hope. More had survived the disaster than could have been expected. As each person was healed, he had come, taken an armload of bottles of the tincture, and gone forth to heal many others. Once cured, Braedon's citizens rallied further to help those less fortunate. Nobles, perhaps recalling what the curse had done to them when they suffered in its grip, opened their homes to provide temporary shelter for those whose dwellings had been burned during the height of the curse's rampage. Those who were hungry came to the Councilman's Seat, where hot soup and bread awaited them. Vervain found herself with no shortage of willing, if unskilled, hands to distribute the tincture to those who were still alive but unhealed.
Many of these volunteers, thought Deveren Larath to himself with a trace of justifiable pride, were his own thieves. The knowledge pleased him. Those who had intentionally followed the darker paths carved out by Marrika and Freylis had not survived that night. The thieves who remained were more inclined to listen to Deveren's ideas, to be aware of something a little larger than their own needs. Deveren's dream of honor among thieves seemed to be coming true, after all.
He lay back in the cooling grass, staring up at the blue sky. The wind, today, was kind, and there were no solemn reminders of the disaster visible at present. The only clouds were large, fluffy ones; natural and harmless. On a whim, Deveren plucked a sprig of grass and chewed on it, as he had when he was a youth.
He'd been surprised to learn that it was largely Castyll's doing that had thwarted the attack on Braedon. Damir admitted to helping, but would not say exactly how. 'I must have some secrets, even from my brother,' he quipped. But Castyll in private had later confided to Deveren that Damir had friends in the ocean's depths, who had come and given their aid in a most marvelous fashion.
Deveren liked Castyll, who for the time being was an honored guest in Lord Larath's modest home. He was young, yes, and oh so terribly earnest. But he was genuine in his love of his people and his fondness for the Byrnians. And he was clearly devoted to Princess Cimarys. There were rumors of a united kingdom-a new country. Deveren idly wondered what the flag would be. Mhar had a lion; Byrn had an eagle. Maybe they'd make a griffin to represent this new realm.
He heard a squeal of laughter, followed by a puppy's yipping bark. His lips smiled around the sprig of grass in his mouth. The laughter of his daughter was the sweetest sound in the world to him now. Allika had wept and readily agreed to an official adoption, and had fallen in love with the little brachet Deveren had bought her to be a new companion in Miss Lally's stead. The child had named the little dog Miss Lally, stating confidently that Miss Lally hadn't ever really died and that she would always be there, guarding Allika.
After what Deveren had experienced on that night of nights a short week ago, he was in no position to argue.
'Liest thou there, thou summer youth, /Contemplating life and truth?' came a voice tremulous with suppressed mirth.
Deveren bolted upright, brushing sheepishly at the weeds in his hair. Grinning, Vervain sank down beside him. She brought her knees up to her chin and hugged them, her eyes shining. Her scarlet garb contrasted vividly with the green grass and blue skies.
'I didn't know you read bad poetry,' said Deveren, blushing a little at having been found in such an undignified position. The current trend among those with too much money and time was to idolize the innocent farmer, not taking into account the backbreaking realities of the 'simple country life.'
Vervain grimaced mockingly. 'Some things one just can't avoid,' she said with an exaggerated sigh.
Silence stretched between them. Deveren had spoken with Vervain about what he had experienced during his 'ride,' a feat that many of the local bards had seized upon as perfect ballad material. Deveren had even heard a few, and had begun to fear that he'd be subjected to various versions of Deveren's Ride for the rest of his life. It was all rather embarrassing. He had told Vervain about Kastara's spirit, about Death's manifestation. But he had said nothing about Kastara's words to him-not yet.
To break the uncomfortable silence, Deveren said, 'How did you know where to find me?' Vervain smiled gently. 'Your brother told me that you come here about this time every day, since Midsummer Night.'
'Here' was Kastara's grave. Deveren had never been able to bring himself to visit his dead wife's final resting place before. It had been too painful. Now, Kastara's passing bore no pain at all. He knew she was all right, and hoped that perhaps, when her work for her mistress was done, she might quietly come visit him here, now and again.
He smiled a little. 'You must think me a poor father, bringing Allika to play in a place like this.'
'Not at all.' Imitating him, Vervain lay back in the grass, her arms folded behind her head. 'Cemeteries don't have to be frightening. They're very peaceful. Especially when they ring with the laughter of a happy little girl.' She turned her head and smiled at him, lifting one hand to shade her eyes from the sun's glare.
Allika scampered up to them at that moment. She was a tiny whirlwind. She paused to briefly kiss Deveren's forehead with a loud smack, repeated the gesture with Vervain, and then ran off again. The fat little puppy at her heels barked and jumped at her as she leaped up into the branches of an old, gnarled tree.
'She keeps begging me to allow her to wear boy's clothes to play in,' sighed Deveren. 'I may have to surrender.' Allika was now hanging from the branches by her knees. The pretty dress Deveren had bought her, covered with dirt and grass stains, flopped over her head.
'Be grateful she's healthy and happy, Deveren. It's what all parents pray for.'
Taking a deep breath, Deveren turned to look at her. 'When I lost Kastara and our baby, I thought I'd lost everything. I wanted very little else from life but to be a husband and a father. Have you ever longed for a family, Vervain?'
'I am a Blesser. Such is denied to us while we serve the goddess.'
Deveren's heart sank. He turned away quickly, fearful that she would see his expression and interpret it correctly. Apparently, though, he was not quick enough.
Vervain sat up, placing a soft hand on his arm. 'You, alone of all men in Verold, know what it means to serve Health. You know what a duty it is.'
Deveren nodded. He did know, but the knowing did not help ease his growing unhappiness.
'As long as I hear Health calling me to serve her, I am oath-bound to commit myself to no lesser being,' the Healer continued. 'But,' and she squeezed his arm, coaxing him to face her, 'there will come a day when the call will not come. And on that day, I will lay aside my scarlet robes of a Blesser and become merely a Healer-a woman free to give her hand where her heart has already gone.'
Surprise and pleasure jolted Deveren. He gazed at her, hardly daring to believe his ears. Vervain's smile grew. He was seized with a longing to lean over and kiss her, but hesitated, wondering if such a desire was, at this point in their lives, right or wrong. He remembered their last such encounter and shame flooded him.
'Vervain,' he stammered, 'when you gave me the tincture…' He couldn't even say it. She reached up a gentle hand to brush his cheek.
'You succumbed to evil, as I knew you would-as you had to if the cure were to work. That was not the Deveren I love, kissing me. This is.'
She leaned forward, pressing her lips, as scarlet and soft as her Blesser's robes, to his. And oh, it was right.
The small gathering at Deveren's that night was not quite merry. Not yet. But it was a celebration, for at dawn the next day the quarantine would be lifted.
Castyll, Damir, Pedric, and Vandaris were in attendance. The feast was too large to feed six people;
