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
* * * * *
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
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