Devlin's Justice (10 page)

S
LOWLY THE DREAM IMAGE OF
C
ERRIE
’
S FACE
faded away, and Devlin awoke to misery. His entire body ached, from his throbbing head to his frostbitten feet. Worst of all was his side, which had been torn open by the banecat’s claws. He took a deep breath, and the stabbing pain of his ribs made him immediately regret the action.

How long had he lain here? He tried to think, but his mind was a jumble of confusion. Had it been only yesterday that he fought the banecats? Or had he lain here for days, dying by inches from the wounds he had received in battle? And who was the strange brown-haired foreigner who appeared in his dreams? The man was a Selvarat by his features, yet why would such a one inhabit Devlin’s dreams? Even more puzzling, why would Cerrie appear to drive him off?

Cerrie. His wife’s name gave him pause. He had avenged the murder of his family, but he felt no elation. Not even a grim satisfaction in having fulfilled his oath. Instead he felt a nagging unease, as if he had left a job half-done.

There was something wrong. Something more than fever addled his wits.

Devlin opened his eyes. It was dark, but not the darkness of the cave he remembered. Gone, too, was the numbing cold. And the floor was rocking back and forth. He was moving.

He tried to sit up, bracing himself on his arms. But his arms moved only a short distance before they were caught, held tight by cold metal fastened around his wrists. He tugged his legs, and found they too were chained.

His head fell back against the floor and he groaned.

Almost at once, the rocking motion stopped. Inborn caution made him close his eyes, as he heard the faint sound of voices. There was a rustling sound, perhaps a leather flap being pushed aside?

The floor dipped beneath him under the weight of another body, and he smelled the burning lamp oil even before the light struck his face. Devlin held himself still.

“Is he awake?” a man’s voice called from outside. There was something very familiar about that voice.

Devlin whimpered softly, and twitched his limbs as if trying to roll over.

“No, just dreaming,” said his observer. This was a woman speaking, with a strong accent that he could not place. From Nerikaat perhaps?

The lamplight left his face, and the wagon bounced slightly as the woman climbed out. He opened his eyes the barest fraction, and saw that he was indeed lying on the floor of a small wagon. Curved ribs overhead supported a leather covering, which was open at one end. The woman pulled the leather flap closed behind her, but not before he confirmed that it was night.

“We’d best prepare another dose just the same,” the woman said. “Won’t be long before he wakes.”

“I don’t like this,” her companion replied. “The menas root is losing its effectiveness. Each time it holds him for a shorter period. And we are still days away from our rendezvous.”

“We’ll do what we must. If the drug no longer works, we’ll simply keep him chained. Or hit him over the head again, if that’s what it takes.” The woman’s voice was unconcerned as her fingers worked busily to tie the laces that held the leather flap shut.

“Fine for you to say. You’re not the one who will have to explain to the Prince why his prize is damaged,” the man grumbled. Then his voice drifted off as the wagon lurched into motion again.

His final words triggered an avalanche of memories. Devlin knew that voice. Karel of Selvarat. He had been present in the King’s private receiving room when Devlin had been brought before King Olafur.

Ambassador Magaharan had been there too, along with Marshal Olvarrson and his aide.

From the moment he had entered the chamber, Devlin had felt uneasy. It had been past midnight, after all, an unusual hour for the King to be in council with his advisors. And the presence of the Selvarat ambassador had seemed odd. Regardless of the new alliance between their countries, surely the King would wish to hear Devlin’s report in private.

But instead Devlin found himself in a room filled with foreigners, and those who had vigorously opposed him. Saskia’s presence at his back gave him an obscure feeling of comfort, as did the presence of a pair of guards.

He remembered that King Olafur had frowned when Devlin revealed that he had returned with the Sword of Light. He had asked to examine the weapon, and Devlin had withdrawn the sword from its scabbard with an odd reluctance. The King took it from him, praising his accomplishment, then placed the sword on a table where others could admire it.

The King had suggested a toast to Devlin and personally handed him a wine cup. Devlin had taken it, only to be warned by his ring that the wine was drugged. He called out a warning to the King and stepped forward, only to be struck down from behind.

The last thing he could remember was hearing Saskia cry out.

She, too, had been taken or killed.

Even his drug-addled wits could see the obvious conclusion. He had been betrayed. King Olafur had not summoned Devlin to return because he wished to consult with the Chosen One. Instead he had lured Devlin into a trap, then handed him over to the waiting Selvarats.

There was no other explanation for his predicament. He had been struck down in the very presence of the King, then somehow smuggled from the palace. Chained like a prisoner or slave, he was being delivered as a gift to a foreign prince.

He wondered how many days he had passed in his drugged stupor. Reason said that he was still in Jorsk, for the Selvarats could just as easily have loaded him on a ship if they intended to take him to their homeland.

He did not know what they planned for him, nor did he intend to lie there passively waiting to find out. For once the Geas and his own will were in accord. He must escape. Whatever it took. The Chosen One was too powerful a weapon to be delivered into the hands of their enemies.

Slowly, so as not to rattle the chains, Devlin pulled his arms taut against their manacles and then released them. He repeated the movement as the metal began to cut into his flesh. The pain occupied but a distant corner of his mind as his duty consumed him. He would escape. And then he would have his revenge upon those who had betrayed him.

Stephen shifted his grip on the chest he carried, sliding his right arm underneath so it took more of the weight. His arms ached with the strain, and he found himself wishing that he had chosen a smaller item. But a smaller package would not have served his purposes. He needed an object that was small enough that one man could bear it, yet heavy enough that the palace servants would be content to let him deliver it himself.

That is if he wasn’t recognized and arrested as soon as he reached the palace. He knew he was taking a great risk, but he could see no other way. It had been over a week since he and Didrik had returned to Kingsholm, and they were still no closer to finding Devlin.

He and Didrik had pursued their separate inquiries, much to Captain Drakken’s displeasure. In his careful outings Stephen had found the mood of the city to be unsettling. On the surface, all were celebrating the end of winter and the long-sought alliance with Selvarat, which promised the return of peace and prosperity. But the celebrations were lackluster, and the public smiles faded away in private.

Some of his friends had refused to speak to him, their eyes passing over him as if he were a stranger. Those few to whom he did talk were worried. The King’s most vocal critics had gone silent or disappeared. Some had been arrested for sedition, while others fled into hiding.

The Chosen One was seldom mentioned, and when he was, his name was cursed. It cost Stephen every ounce of control he possessed not to protest the first time he was told that Devlin had abandoned the people of Jorsk. By the tenth time he heard it, he had grown numb.

Didrik, too, had grown frustrated by their lack of progress. He had spent three days watching Baron Martell’s residence, only to confirm that Pers Sundgren was not within. Recklessly he’d followed some of the Baron’s armsmen to a tavern and engaged them in conversation. He’d confirmed that the Baron did indeed have a Commander Sundgren who was currently back at the Baron’s seat. But his questions had raised their suspicions, and Didrik had been lucky to make his escape.

He knew that the others had grown discouraged. Didrik had even gone so far as to search the old cemetery, looking for fresh unmarked graves. He had returned to their room covered in dirt and smelling of death.

Captain Drakken had instituted a river patrol, ostensibly searching for smugglers; but he knew that she, too, was looking for a body. Devlin’s body.

Only Stephen held firmly to the belief that Devlin was still alive, though his optimism waned with each day that passed without news.

As Stephen approached the palace gate, the two guards on duty drew themselves to attention. He had purposely chosen the busiest gate, hoping to blend in with the others who passed through, but ill luck was with him, for the gate was strangely deserted, and there was no one to take the guards’ attention away from him.

“Halt,” one commanded. “State your business.”

His stomach felt queasy, and he hoped fervently that none of his nervousness showed on his face. The guard who had spoken was a stranger to him, but his companion was one Stephen knew well: Private Thornke, a decent fiddler, who had often accompanied Stephen on those occasions that he entertained the guards. Stephen had covered his hair with a woolen hat and wore common clothes, but such a disguise would not fool one who knew him well.

“Silks for Lady Vendela. From Merchant Tansey,” Stephen said, holding the chest before him.

“Put it down and open it up,” the first guard commanded.

Stephen set the box on the ground, kneeling down beside it, then undid the clasps. He raised the lid, revealing the top layer of crimson silk. It had been all he could afford, and underneath the silk he had piled common muslin. The chest was worth far more than the price of the goods inside, but the guards had no way of knowing that.

The first guard reached down and extended one hand.

“Stop!” Stephen said indignantly, mimicking the high pitched tones of a trader he knew. “Your hands are unclean, and that silk is worth more than you earn in a season. If you ruin it Lady Vendela will have both our hides.”

The guard hastily withdrew his hand. Lady Vendela’s temper was well known.

“Summon a chamberman to bring the chest to Lady Vendela,” the guard said.

“No,” Thornke replied.

Stephen held his breath as Thornke’s eyes widened in apparent recognition.

“No,” Thornke repeated. “If he’s so concerned about the silks, let him lug it up to Lady Vendela’s rooms. The labor will be good for him.”

His chest eased at the unexpected reprieve.

“Do you know the way?” Thornke asked.

Stephen picked up the chest and rose to his feet. Despite his burden, he made a half bow. “Yes, sirs.”

“Go then, and be quick about your business,” the first guard ordered. “Tradesmen are not allowed in the palace after sunset.”

Stephen nodded. He walked slowly past the guards, though his instincts screamed at him to run. He muttered fervent thanks to Lord Kanjti that it had been Thornke who recognized him, and not another. Thornke had kept his secret, whether out of friendship or loyalty to Drakken. If it had been anyone else, they might well have chosen to obey their standing orders and arrest Stephen for questioning.

He hoped that his luck would hold, as he made his way across the courtyard and into the palace. He passed another pair of guards and several servants, but no one paid attention to him, as he kept the chest raised before him and his head bowed low.

Lady Vendela was not in her chambers, but her maid accepted the chest and promised to convey Merchant Tansey’s compliments to her mistress. No doubt Lady Vendela would be surprised when she opened the box to find that it held a mere yard of silk. The merchant would be equally surprised at Lady Vendela’s complaints. But by the time they realized they had been hoaxed, Stephen would be long gone.

As he exited Lady Vendela’s chamber he turned left and made his way to the very end of the corridor and up one flight of stairs. Luck was with him, for there was no one about as he made his way to the third door on the left. He drew a deep breath and knocked.

There was no answer. He paused for a moment, then knocked again.

This time the door swung open.

“Yes?” Solveig asked. Then her eyes widened as she recognized him. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room, shutting the door swiftly behind him.

“Stephen, you bloody great fool,” she said. But her disparaging words were belied by the fierce embrace in which she held him.

Stephen wrapped his arms around his sister, giving himself up to the reassurance of her touch. For a moment he wished with all his heart that he was once again a small boy, that his eldest sister could make everything right.

She clung to him for several heartbeats, then finally she released him, but she kept hold of his hands.

“You look terrible,” she said.

“I am pleased to see you as well.”

“You should not have come here. Didn’t Captain Drakken warn you?”

“Yes.” Stephen’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Captain Drakken gave me her orders, and Didrik forbade me as well. But I had to see you.”

“You took a great risk. The guards have orders to bring you before the King’s Council for questioning.”

“I know.”

Captain Drakken had shared a copy of the decree with them. It had not named Stephen or Didrik as traitors. Instead the orders directed that the two were to report to the King’s Council with all haste upon their return to Kingsholm, and that any member of the Guard or army who encountered them was to take them prisoner if they refused to come under their own volition. And without Captain Drakken’s warning, reporting to the council is precisely what Stephen would have done. And then they might well have become two more of the missing.

“Come, sit a moment, and let me take in the sight of you. Can I offer you wine? Citrine?”

“Wine,” Stephen said absently. He paced around the sitting room before taking a seat by the cold hearth. Solveig filled two glasses with pale wine and handed one to him.