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
