Devlin's Justice (15 page)

“I must return to my vigil,” Brother Arni said, and he turned to make his way up the stairs and back to the temple.

It was customary that the priest of the temple spend the entire night in prayer for the soul of the Chosen One. It was a sign of how far she had fallen that she used him as a watchdog, perverting his pious vigil to ensure that they could meet in safety.

“Dreng, have you come to gloat? To tell us that you finally collected your wager?” she asked.

Dreng shook his head. “Believe what you will, but this time I wagered on Devlin’s safe return.”

“Then come, and have a drink with us. Didrik, find him an altar cup.”

“No,” Dreng said. “I came to the temple to pay my respects, and to offer you my services. I am fortunate that Brother Arni told me where you could be found.”

“What can you do for us? Can you banish the enemy from the coast? Can you cast a spell upon King Olafur to make him see reason? Can you raise a man from the dead?” She spat the words out, even as she knew that her anger was not for Dreng alone.

“No. But I can help with disguises, and cast illusions to cover the tracks of those who would wish to make their escape.”

It was a fair offer, and more than she had expected. Dreng had nothing to gain and everything to lose by helping them.

Didrik had found an odd-shaped vessel that looked like it might hold one of the fat candles used on feast days. He filled it with wine and handed it to Master Dreng before refilling everyone else’s goblet. At this pace, they would be too drunk to stand well before the dawn.

“A toast in memory of a brave man,” Master Dreng said, lifting his cup.

She raised her glass in salute, then took a hearty swallow with the others.

“There is one thing more you can do,” Didrik said. “You still know the spells for the Choosing Ceremony. We can name a new Chosen One. Tonight.”

She had wondered what form Didrik’s madness would take. She opened her mouth to protest, but Master Dreng was even quicker.

“No, I cannot do that. The spells are done in the King’s name, and the King has abolished the post. I can no longer be certain that the spells would work. In all likelihood I would simply kill the candidate.”

“And what good would it be to be named Chosen One? Without the Sword of Light, you would be denounced as an impostor and sent to meet Devlin’s fate,” she added.

No one challenged her pronouncement. She lowered herself back down to the ground, and after a moment the others followed her, Master Dreng perching awkwardly on the bottom step. He set his wine off to one side, a marked contrast from his behavior in years past.

Stephen picked up the axe and cradled it in his lap. He removed the cover that guarded the blade and traced the engraved pattern with his thumb. “Devlin once asked me a favor,” he said, in a voice so soft that she had to lean forward to hear him. “The night before his duel with Gerhard. He made me promise that if he died that I would destroy this axe. He said it was cursed.”

It was an odd thing to say, especially since the axe had been one of Devlin’s most closely guarded possessions. But then again, many of Devlin’s customs had been strange to her.

She reached out her hand. “I will see to it that it is destroyed,” she said. After she had used it as evidence.

Stephen gripped it even tighter. “Devlin believed that his soul was bound up in the forging of this axe,” he said. He turned his gaze to Master Dreng. “The soul stone is gone, but we still have this axe. If Devlin is indeed alive, you should be able to feel it.”

“And if the mage feels nothing?” she asked.

“Then I will have proof that he is dead. And I will go to Esker. Not because you asked, but because I promised my father that I would return to help him when Devlin died.”

Stephen stood up and walked the few paces that separated him from Master Dreng. With visible reluctance Dreng accepted the axe.

“I have never heard of a living soul being bound in a weapon before,” Dreng said.

“But you can still try,” Stephen challenged him. “You owe him that much.”

Master Dreng laid the axe across his knees. The others gathered around, watching as the mage lifted his hands over the axe. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and when he opened them, all trace of doubt was gone from his face.

“I invoke Egil, the Forge God, who presided over your making,” he said. “In his name I command you. Give over to us your secrets and tell us of the one who made you. Share with us the news of his fate.”

Master Dreng gripped the handle of the axe with both hands. “In the name of Egil I command you,” he repeated.

His hands began to glow, as if illuminated from within. The light traveled up the handle of the axe, until it reached the steel blade, which began to pulse slowly with a reddish light, as if it were fresh from the forge.

Stephen reached over and touched the axe blade. Rather than complaining of the heat, the minstrel smiled.

She touched the axe blade herself, and realized that it was cool to the touch.

“What does this mean?” she asked.

The mage shook his head. “I would not have believed this if I had not seen it,” he said. “A soul, tied to metal. There is no feel of magic as there is with the soul stone spell, and yet, somehow, the tie is there.”

“But what does it mean?”

Master Dreng blinked at her angry tone. “It means Devlin is alive.”

Ten

D
EVLIN SLEPT, BUT HIS REST WAS PLAGUED BY
nightmares. King Olafur mocked him, laughing as a faceless soldier ran Devlin through with a sword. He lay on the ground of the training yard, straining to reach a bucket of water that sat just out of his reach. A column of Guard recruits stepped over his body with barely a glance as they made their way to the practice field. As he lay, his skin shriveling from fever, Sergeant Lukas appeared. He paused by Devlin’s side. “Thirsty, are you?” he said. Then he kicked over the bucket.

Tears ran down Devlin’s face as he watched the water sink into the muddy ground. Yet even as he cried, he knew there was something wrong. He blinked his eyes furiously, and his vision swam. No longer was he in the courtyard, instead he was staring up at a sliver of blue sky, surrounded by leafy green trees. A face swam into view, and Devlin tried to speak, but his tongue was thick and clumsy. He tried to raise his arm, and was shocked when it did not respond. He could not even feel his limbs.

I am dying
, he thought. And then he fell into confusion once more.

He could not tell night from day, nor waking from the fever dreams. He no longer knew who he was or what had happened to him. There was only one thing he was certain of. He was being held prisoner and he had to escape. He struggled with the mindless rage of a trapped animal, but his dulled wits were no match for his captors.

Time passed—how long he did not know. But then there came a day when he awoke, in full possession of his wits.

He was Devlin of Duncaer, called the Chosen One. He had been betrayed into the hands of his enemies, who had drugged him into insensibility. He remembered waking and his ill-fated escape attempt. Beyond that was nothing, save dark images that might have been truth or feverish imaginings.

He held himself still, trying to preserve what advantage he could. Slowly, stealthily, he took stock. There was a lingering ache in his wrists, but none of the pain he had expected. Gone, too, were the terrible thirst and hunger that had featured so prominently in his nightmares.

He lay not on the floor of a jolting wagon but on the soft surface of a bed. The scent of herbs filled the air, and he heard the sound of someone pouring liquid out of a pitcher.

“You can stop the pretense,” a man’s voice said. “I know you are awake.”

Devlin opened his eyes. He glanced swiftly around and saw that he was in a large chamber that would not have looked out of place in a noble’s house. The walls were hung with silk and the floor was of inlaid wood, but it was strangely bare of furniture. There was only the bed he lay in, a carved wooden chair by the fireplace, and a long table that held a pitcher, several small jars, and a brazier filled with ashes.

There were three windows, each covered by a lattice of iron bars. A pair of well-armed mercenaries flanked the door, while a man wearing a plain woolen robe stood by the table. The man picked up the clay cup he had been filling and brought it over to Devlin.

Devlin levered himself upright. His arms shook with weakness, but held his weight. He glanced at his captors, noting that in addition to belted swords, each held a heavy iron hammer. A strange weapon, but effective. Even if his legs would bear his weight, the chance that he could surprise and overpower the two was slim.

As the man held out the clay cup, Devlin saw that he was wearing the silver torc of a healer. But any reassurance of his profession was countered by the presence of the armed guards.

“Drink,” the man urged.

“No,” Devlin said, testing his voice and pleased to find that it worked.

“It is redfruit juice, nothing more,” the man said. “If you tolerate this, we will see about getting proper food for you.”

Devlin closed his lips tightly and shrugged. He would not let them drug him again.

“Stubborn ox,” the man exclaimed. He raised the cup to his lips, and downed the contents in several noisy swallows. “Satisfied?”

Devlin watched as the man went back to the table and refilled the cup. This time when it was held out to him, he accepted.

His stomach had awoken, and it complained bitterly of long privation. At some point he would have to eat or drink, if only to keep his strength up. Besides, he reasoned, it was unlikely that they intended to keep him a drugged captive forever.

Devlin took a cautious sip. It tasted like redfruit juice. As he turned the cup in his hand, he was surprised to see that he was still wearing the ring of the Chosen One. The ring’s stone remained dark, signifying that the liquid was safe to drink. With a shrug of his shoulders, he finished the contents.

“Who are you? And why have you brought me here?” Devlin said.

“I am Master Justin. As to why you are here, I cannot say. My orders were to heal you, and that I have done.”

“Where am I?” Devlin asked, swinging his feet to one side of the bed.

“You are in—”

“No,” one of the mercenaries interrupted.

Devlin looked at the speaker. He thought he recognized the man and his partner as being among those who had thwarted his escape attempt, but it was hard to be certain. The two wore the short tunic and leather pants customary among hired soldiers in Jorsk, while their elaborately braided brown hair called to mind the few sea folk he had seen. The healer, on the other hand, spoke as one who had spent years within Kingsholm’s walls, and his features marked him as one born and bred within Jorsk.

And he had not forgotten that it was Karel of Selvarat who seemed to be giving the orders. It was a strange alliance that brought such disparate folk together.

The door opened and a nobleman entered, followed by Karel and the female who had helped drug Devlin during the journey.

Devlin rose to his feet, grasping the headboard for balance.

“You have done your work well,” the stranger said.

“I kept my promise,” Master Justin said.

Karel cleared his throat.

“I have kept my promise, Your Highness,” Master Justin repeated, stressing the honorific. His attempt at civility was belied by the anger in his voice.

Interesting. So he was not pleased to be working for this prince. Such hatred might well prove to be a lever for Devlin to exploit.

“You may leave us and one of the guards outside will take you to see your family. When you have satisfied yourself that they are well, return to your quarters.”

“But—” Justin protested.

“I may have use for you later, if my new guest proves uncooperative. You remember the terms of our bargain. You will be free to go when I have no use for either of you.”

Master Justin muttered under his breath as he gathered up his supplies. Then he made his retreat.

“So you are the mysterious prince who holds Karel’s leash,” Devlin said.

Karel’s face darkened, but his master only smiled. “Chosen One, I am pleased to see you living up to your reputation for brashness,” he said.

The Prince’s gaze measured him, as if Devlin were a piece of bloodstock he had just acquired. Devlin returned the regard with all the insolence he could muster. The Prince was a lean man, lacking the heavy muscles of a warrior or laborer. Even his face was thin, the flesh stretched taut over angular features. His long, dark brown hair was gathered in the back in the Selvarat style, and a golden circlet sat on his brow, indicating he was of royal blood. He wore a long outer robe of pale green over a dark silken shirt and linen trews. He did not appear to be armed, but that did not make him any less dangerous.

Devlin tightened his grip on the bed post. He told himself it was his weakness that made him feel chilled, but he could not deny that there was something cold about the Prince’s gaze. And surely it was a trick of the light that made his dark eyes appear flat and lifeless?