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 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?"