Devlin's Justice (17 page)

“Your arrest was a sham?” Rikard asked.

“No, the arrest was real. I told Embeth that I was planning on accusing the King of murder, and she promptly went off and informed him of my plan.”

“But—” Rikard shook his head in confusion.

“But she also left the key to the cell doors in the straw and made sure I was assigned to that cell. And these two here are her work. I recognize her touch with a knife.”

She wondered what had happened. The plan had been to disable the guards, not to kill them. One of them must have recognized Embeth and thus sealed their fates.

Captain Drakken led the way up the narrow staircase, through the wine cellar, then paused at the kitchen door. She sheathed her sword, and Oluva did the same. Quickly Drakken stripped off her cloak and wrapped it around Oluva, pulling the hood over her face. Hopefully no one would look at her too closely.

Rikard was another matter. His once-fine clothes were stained and ripped in places.

“Keep your head down and don’t say anything,” Drakken instructed him. “If luck is with us, word will not yet have spread about my arrest.”

She and Oluva flanked Rikard, as if they were escorting him, then Drakken opened the door that led to the kitchen. At that hour it was quiet, save for the bakers laboring at their dough, who spared them barely a glance. It was not the first time that the guards had taken the shortcut through the kitchens when escorting a drunken or disorderly guest out of the palace.

As they stepped into the courtyard she could see that the stars had disappeared, and the sky was turning gray. She quickened her pace. They needed to be out of the city by dawn.

Everything depended on timing. She had waited an hour to make sure that Embeth had time to report the successful arrest to King Olafur, then to establish her own alibi for the escape. Ansgar would not be so lucky. He was to be drugged and made to disappear. Evidence would be discovered that he had fled the city, presumably after helping Drakken make her escape. Even if he did find the courage to come forward, once he was released, it was doubtful that King Olafur would believe any tale he might care to spin.

That is if Embeth let him live. Drakken had refused to countenance cold-blooded murder, but Embeth had already crossed that line.

Drakken led them to the prayer gate, a small door in the outer wall near the Royal Temple. Generations ago it had been carved into the wall so that devout worshipers could enter to pay their devotions at any hour of the day or night. Nowadays it was seldom used, but it was still functional.

Sergeant Lukas saluted as he caught sight of her. Wordlessly he handed each of them the brown cloaks of laborers, and to Drakken he gave a leather bag that she hung over her shoulder. The bag held her store of coins, as well as the maps she would need.

“Horses and provisions are waiting at the Drover’s Inn, just beyond the East Gate. It’s owned by Nifra’s cousin. You’ll be safe there.”

Thirty years before, Lukas and Nifra had briefly been married. Their marriage had not survived, but their friendship had. Nifra had risked her life to carry messages between Didrik and Drakken. If Lukas trusted this cousin of hers, then Drakken would too.

“Thank you,” she said. “Remember, follow Embeth’s lead. I will return once I have found him.”

“I’ll keep things safe for you,” Lukas replied, with a quick salute. “May the Gods watch over you, Captain.”

“And over you as well,” she replied. She was not a religious woman, but they would need all the help they could get.

No one challenged them as they made their way through the city, and as the dawn broke, the guards on duty looked the other way as Drakken and her companions slipped out of the eastern gate. She said nothing to them, so they could truthfully claim they had neither seen nor heard her.

It was humbling to realize how many people had risked their lives so that she could make her escape. From the moment Master Dreng had revealed that Devlin was alive, she had known that she could not remain in the city. But neither could she leave Kingsholm in the hands of Ansgar and his ilk. Together she and Embeth had hatched this plan, one that would bring Embeth into favor while eliminating the treacherous Ansgar.

War had been declared this night, though it was doubtful that anyone besides herself had realized it. Drakken might have been the first, but in time everyone would be forced to choose between serving a lawless King and their duty toward their country. Those slain tonight were but the first of the casualties that would come.

The horses were waiting at the Drover’s Inn, as were Didrik and Stephen.

Didrik frowned at Oluva’s appearance, but merely said, “The horses are saddled, and we are ready to leave as soon as you mount up.”

“We are bound for Korinth, to rescue Devlin if we can. And once the Chosen One is in our hands, we plan to challenge King Olafur and his damned Selvarat friends,” Drakken informed him.

Rikard’s jaw dropped. “Devlin is alive? Are you certain?”

Stephen patted the great axe he wore slung over his back. “Yes, we have proof.”

“Will you come with us?” Drakken asked.

Embeth had wanted to come, as had Lukas, and there were others who would have come if she had but asked. But it was a matter of balancing risks. Kingsholm needed the Guard to protect it, and to make sure that the city did not fall into anarchy. And a few more swords would make no difference. She was not planning on challenging the Selvarats to battle. She was planning on exercising stealth and cunning, and a small, swiftly moving group was of far more use to her.

Rikard shook his head. “My place is in Myrka,” he said.

“Your province is under Selvarat rule, and you have been named traitor,” she reminded him.

“My people will not accept the Selvarat yoke,” he said confidently. “With me to lead them they will rise up and overthrow the invaders.”

“You will get yourself killed.”

“It is my life. Those are my lands, the very soil is in my blood. I can do no less.”

“So be it,” she said.

Didrik led a roan gelding out of its stall and held it as Rikard attempted to mount. It took him two tries, and when he finally succeeded Rikard’s face was gray, and he held his right arm clamped firmly around his ribs. A brave man, but foolish. Riding alone and injured he would be easy prey for the patrols that the King would send out after the escaped prisoners.

“Didrik, do we have a spare sword?” she asked.

“Your fighting sword is on your saddle,” he replied. “Lukas smuggled it out of the palace yesterday.”

So absorbed had she been in her preparations that she had not even noticed one of her swords was missing. She wondered what else she had overlooked, then dismissed the thought as unimportant. What was done was done and there was no going back.

She unbuckled the borrowed sword from her waist and lashed the scabbard to Rikard’s saddle. “If I were you, I’d not be taken alive,” she advised.

“Give my respects to the Chosen One,” he replied. Then he kneed his horse into a slow walk.

“Mount up,” she said, as Didrik and Stephen led the remaining horses out from their stalls.

She watched as Rikard’s figure disappeared from view.

“He will be lucky if he lasts a day on the road,” Didrik said.

“So will we if we tarry any longer,” she said sharply. “We’d best be going, as we will not find Devlin by standing around here talking.”

As they rode, she resisted the urge to turn around, to take one final look at the walls of the city where she had served for over a quarter of a century. It felt as if she was abandoning her post, but she reminded herself that she was not running away. She was journeying toward a goal. They would find Devlin, and when they returned they would set the Kingdom to rights.

Eleven

T
HREE DAYS PASSED, AND AS
D
EVLIN
’
S STRENGTH
returned, so too did his confusion and frustration. Prince Arnaud had gone to great lengths to have Devlin brought here, wherever this place was, yet now he ignored him. And rather than being thrown in a dank cell, Devlin was treated as if he were an honored guest. That is if one ignored the barred windows and the ever-present gaolers who watched his every move.

Meals fit for Prince Arnaud himself were brought to his chamber, far more than one man could do justice to, though Devlin ate as much as he could. He had not needed Master Justin’s explanations to know that he had lost weight during his captivity. His captors had kept him so drugged that he could scarcely eat, and the flesh had melted from his bones.

More, too, had been lost during the healing process. Devlin had listened with only half an ear as Master Justin had described how Devlin’s mindless attempts to free himself from his chains had torn his flesh, and the mangled shreds had begun to rot. Master Justin had healed Devlin so that he bore only fading scars, but such healing had sapped his stamina. The healer had castigated Devlin for his recklessness, but Devlin had not seen fit to enlighten him. It had not been Devlin who had struggled long past the point of reason. It had been the Geas, which freed from Devlin’s own reason knew only the mindless devotion to his oaths.

Protect Jorsk. Serve her King. The Geas spell was implacable. Even after King Olafur’s betrayal, the Geas did not relent. Devlin must destroy Prince Arnaud so his evil could not threaten Jorsk. If he could find no way of destroying the Prince, then Devlin must escape. Or destroy himself, lest the Chosen One somehow be turned into a weapon against Jorsk.

Though how Prince Arnaud planned to use him, he did not know. Was Devlin’s mere presence enough? Did he plan to use the Chosen One as a figurehead for an invasion of Jorsk? If so, he would be disappointed. The nobles had never loved Devlin, and with the exception of a few hotheads like Lord Rikard, no one would support him. The commoners had hailed Devlin as a champion, but before he could consolidate his power he had been sent out of the country, on a quest to retrieve the Sword of Light.

He paused a moment to wonder what had happened to the legendary weapon meant only to be wielded by the anointed Chosen One. Was it even now locked away within the King’s vaults, awaiting the day when some other fool was named Chosen One?

“What place is this?” he asked.

His gaolers made no answer. There were always two of them. There were at least two more outside, who could be seen whenever the door was opened. They were mercenaries, and their uniforms were as mismatched as their features. But they were well-trained, for they stood their watches without complaint and without visible sign of boredom or fatigue. They did not speak to him except to give him instructions, and they would not respond to his taunts.

It would be difficult to take them off guard. And he had not forgotten Prince Arnaud’s threat. The consequences of a failed escape attempt would be dire.

Devlin would have to be patient and await the right opportunity to strike.

On the fourth day, Master Justin visited just after breakfast and pronounced himself satisfied with Devlin’s progress.

“The sooner you cooperate with the Prince, the sooner we will both be set free,” Master Justin urged him. Apparently he still clung to his first impression that Devlin was a witless fool.

Devlin smiled grimly. “The Chosen One serves no foreign master,” he said. “Your future is your own to make.”

It was possible that the healer might go free, but doubtful. Prince Arnaud did not strike him as a man who would relinquish any tool that came to hand.

Devlin’s fate was even murkier. Prince Arnaud had informed him that he had great plans for him, but surely the Prince must know that he could not expect Devlin’s cooperation.

Though it occurred to him to wonder what would have happened if Olafur had simply commanded Devlin to go with Karel and serve Prince Arnaud. Would the Geas have compelled him to obey? Was the Chosen One a cur who could be freely passed from one master to another? Or would his oath to protect the people of Jorsk have overridden the King’s orders?

The Geas spell was a clumsy thing, meant to ensure the loyalty of the Chosen Ones. It had the relentless power of a bludgeon, and the finesse to match. A man might well go mad under its power, torn between obeying two conflicting oaths.

Had one of his predecessors ever faced such a dilemma? If Stephen were here, he would be able to answer Devlin’s questions. But at this moment Devlin was glad that Stephen was far from this place, and safe.

With a few muttered imprecations, Master Justin took his leave.

Devlin began a slow walk around the perimeter of the room. As before, the mercenaries allowed him to approach within two paces before warning him away. He nodded, and altered his path. Perhaps given time they would grow less vigilant.

His head was bent, as if in thought, but his eyes took in every detail of the room, looking for something he might have overlooked in his previous circuits. Anything that could be used as a weapon.

But there was nothing. The bed had four tall posts, but the bed hangings and their cords had been removed. He could fashion a rope out of a torn sheet, but not while he was under constant observation. He had no belt, and he had been given a shirt with buttons rather than ties. His boots with their hidden knives were nowhere to be seen. Instead, they had given him soft leather shoes to wear. Even his meat was sliced before it was delivered, and his fork and spoon were carefully collected after each meal.