fine little schemes for turning your thieves into kind-hearted do-gooders.'
Pedric was raging now. His bloodshot eyes were wild and flecks of saliva flew from his lips. His voice was rising, and Deveren grew alarmed. If someone overheard…
'Lorinda wouldn't want you-'
'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? She's gone, and there's nothing left of her now but decaying flesh and a memory, 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 stalked off, head held high, every line of his slim but muscular form radiating anger. Deveren watched him go, absolutely stunned. He had never seen Pedric like this before. Grief he had expected, and anger, but not the poisonous vitriol and contempt that had spewed from Pedric.
The reaction set in and Deveren began to shake. He felt as though Pedric had physically assaulted him with his words. Dear gods, the boy must be dying inside to have spoken like that. 'Give him a little time to think and room to be alone with his pain,' said Damir's soft voice behind Deveren.
Deveren started. 'Damn it, I wish you'd quit doing that.'
Damir smiled briefly, then sobered. 'I'm going to have to leave very shortly. I've been coughing this morning and doing my best to appear as if I'm going to get very ill. It's up to you to keep that appearance going.'
Deveren searched his brother's eyes. 'I don't like this, Damir. I don't like it at all.'
'You don't have to like it,' replied Damir. 'You just have to agree to keep up the illusion that I'm resting in your house.' At once, he leaned away and coughed loudly, raspily. Deveren thought that had not Damir pursued the path of a diplomat, he'd have made an excellent thespian.
Castyll could not contain his excitement. Freedom was just a few hours away. He laughed as he rode the beautiful white horse down the main road of Ilantha, waving to the enthusiastic throngs who had turned out to see their young king walk the path to true manhood.
He was clad symbolically in white, down to the beautiful leather boots that had been made specifically for the occasion. The guards who rode attendance had exchanged their somber uniforms for bright tunics, and their horses all had colored ribbons braided in their manes. Even Bhakir had supplemented his sky-blue robes with a lively crimson and gold sash. The entire company looked more like they were going to a festival than to a holy rite. But then again, this rite was something out of the ordinary.
As usual, Bhakir was never more than a yard away from him. The counselor sat astride a large bay gelding. Castyll felt his disapproval.
'You're in a jovial mood, my good King Castyll,' said Bhakir.
Castyll didn't take his eyes off his subjects. He didn't want to spoil the mood by looking at Bhakir. 'And why shouldn't I be?' he replied gaily. 'I'm a healthy young man going off to learn the secrets of love.'
Bhakir snorted. 'She's hardly qualified to teach you anything.'
'Doesn't matter. She is the Blesser of Love. It's her right.'
'She's not beautiful.'
'She doesn't have to be.' At once, Castyll realized he had misspoken. He had meant that physical beauty had no part to play in the holy rite between Blesser and initiate. Instead, Bhakir clearly interpreted the words to have a cruder meaning, and he laughed nastily.
'All cats are gray in the dark, eh, lad?'
The king's good spirits soured. Bhakir managed to sully everything he was part of. Castyll did not let his ire show, however. Instead, forcing himself to reply on Bhakir's level, he replied, 'Indeed.'
Again Bhakir laughed, and turned around in the saddle, sharing the coarse joke with the guards riding attendance. They laughed along with their master. Castyll swallowed his anger and his natural instinct to come to the defense of the shy young Adara. Instead, he rejoiced in the fact that he had lulled Bhakir into a false sense of security. If he thought that Castyll was riding eagerly toward a long night of rutting, then Bhakir would not be expecting an escape attempt.
Up ahead, he glimpsed the temple of Love. In the smaller towns and countrysides, the temple would often be surrounded by trees, or in the center of an uncultivated meadow. Here in a major port city, it was not as rustic as men's memories tended to paint it. Necessity required that a city dwelling forgo such a setting, but the actual building itself still spoke of the uncomplicated goddess it represented. The building was a simple, single-story stone house. There was a garden; Love's temple always had a garden, but instead of a vast, fruit-laden orchard, this one was small and simple. It was crowded with flowers in the front, and Castyll knew that there was a small plot of land in the rear. Flat stones formed a path from the street up through the simple garden to the door.
On the overlarge wooden door was a carving of Love laying a small hand on a fawn. Castyll dismounted. The crowd had gone quiet. Had things progressed as they ought, Castyll thought bitterly, he would be coming as a prince, not a king. Shahil would be there, asking the questions and answering them, performing the part of a father leading a son to manhood. Bhakir had proposed taking this role, but for once Castyll had given full reign to his feelings and shot down that idea as if it were a quail he was hunting.
Alone, then, the young king approached. He stepped forward and respectfully kissed the image of Love, then knocked on the door. After a moment, one of the Blesser's Tenders, a girl not much younger than the youthful Blesser herself, opened the door. She was as awkward as Adara herself had been just a few days ago, but she stood arrow-straight and her voice didn't tremble. The Tender wore a simple white gown, belted with a length of rope, and her feet were bare.
'Who comes to the Temple of Love?'
'I, Castyll Alhaidri Shahil Derlian, knock on Love's door,' the young man replied, complying with the ritual. He did not use his title. He came now as a supplicant, not a king.
'What seek you, Castyll Derlian, within these walls?'
'I seek Love's Blesser.'
'What would you have with her, Castyll Derlian?'
'I would be taught in the ways of Love, that I might better honor the goddess.'
The Tender nodded. 'It pleases Love. Enter in.' She stepped aside and allowed the young king to pass into the coolness of the house. 'Castyll Derlian, you have come as a boy to Love's Temple. By this time tomorrow, Love shall have made you a man.'
Cheers broke out among the crowd. Castyll waved to his people, met Bhakir's eyes for a long moment, and then Love's Tender closed the door.
She indicated a table in the center of the room. It was laden with simple foodstuffs-bread and cheese, meat, fruit, wine. 'Please, Castyll. Sit down. Take refreshment after your journey.' 'I thank you, Tender, but I must speak with the Blesser as soon as-'
'Within these walls,' said the young girl with more dignity than her years would indicate, 'you do not reign. Whatever you may be to the world outside, here you are but a humble subject of the goddess, like any other man. The Blesser will come to you at the time of her choosing. You cannot order her about at your whim.'
Castyll raised his eyebrows. He was not offended, but he was slightly taken aback. He recovered quickly. 'Your pardon, good Tender. I meant no offense. Certainly I will partake of the good food you have provided.'
He wasn't hungry — in fact, his stomach was turning somersaults-but he sat down on the wooden bench at the table regardless. The Tender, satisfied that Castyll was going to abide by the rules, slipped quietly away. He poured himself a goblet of wine and drank, glancing around.
The windows and the door to the garden in the back stood wide open, letting a breeze circulate through the house. The fire was unlit, but the remains of one sullied the otherwise clean hearth. There were no rushes on the floor; rather thick woven rugs. As he continued to observe, a small cat wandered in from the garden. It paused, regarded Castyll, then slowly, regally approached him. It rubbed its smooth head against his leg, and Castyll heard the rumblings of a purr. He bent and petted the creature.
'Well, if you meet with Timmar's approval, then you are welcome indeed.' It was Adara, of course. She had followed the beast in from the garden and now leaned against the doorway. Castyll was pleasantly surprised at what ten days as Blesser had done to the shy young girl he had seen invested.
She stood straighter now, and her movements were more composed and fluid. While she was still sadly plain, there was a dignity about her that cloaked her rough features with a beauty all its own. He smiled and bowed.
