Devlin's Justice (3 page)

“And now that we have arrived, we can discuss the disposition of the next wave of forces with you and Marshal Olvarrson,” Lord Karel added. “Our general staff recommended that our troops be used to secure the eastern provinces, which are the closest to Selvarat. You could then use your own units to secure your northwestern border. But . . . this is just a proposal. Naturally you will want your advisors to review these plans and see if you agree with our suggestions.”

“Naturally,” he echoed.

Marshal Olvarrson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I would have to see the plans, but there is sense in what he proposes. Major Mikkelson has been complaining for months that if an attack came, he could not hold the east coast on his own.”

Mikkelson. Now there was a man who was nearly as much trouble as his mentor Devlin. Mikkelson had pleaded that the troops be released from their central garrisons, not seeming to realize that trouble was just as likely to come from the west as the east.

“It seems you have thought of everything,” Lady Ingeleth said dryly. From the tone of her voice Olafur knew that she was not pleased. “And what precisely do you expect from us in return?”

“The Empress seeks a pledge of friendship. And a gift to seal the alliance.”

Olafur had a strong suspicion that he knew what the gift was to be. He had had months to resign himself to this, though he had not yet told Ragenilda of her probable fate. Fortunately she was a biddable girl and would do as she was told.

It was a shame that he had only the one child. Ragenilda would rule Jorsk after him, and whoever she married would be the father of the next king or queen. Still, it was a small price to pay if it meant ensuring there was a kingdom for her to inherit.

“My daughter Princess Ragenilda is young—”

“Not too young to be pledged,” Lord Karel interrupted.

Lady Ingeleth hissed at this breach of court etiquette.

“Prince Nathan is just turned sixteen and would be a fitting match for your daughter, when the time comes. But Ragenilda’s future is a matter for another day,” Karel continued.

“Then what is it you want?” Olafur asked.

“The Chosen One,” Lord Karel replied. “We want Devlin of Duncaer.”

Two

K
RONNA
’
S
M
ILL WAS TOO INSIGNIFICANT TO
be listed on Devlin’s maps—scarcely more than a village, if a prosperous one. Deep in the interior of Jorsk it showed few signs of the troubles that afflicted the outlands. In addition to the mill from which it had taken its name, there were a handful of well-kept shops and a large inn that offered the promise of shelter from the icy rain. Though it was only midday, Devlin called a halt, despite Didrik’s protests.

The inn-wife took one look at the shivering party and shooed them into the common room, where she coaxed the smoldering fire into a roaring blaze. Wet cloaks were hung to dry, while their hands were soon wrapped around mugs of hot kava. Muscles that ached from the cold began to relax as their blood warmed.

Saskia grimaced at the taste of the kava, then gulped down the contents of her mug in three quick swallows. “Flames, I don’t know how you drink this stuff. What happened to decent tea?”

“We ran out a week ago, if you remember,” Devlin said mildly. “I doubt the merchants here will have any, but you can ask.”

Saskia shook her head. “I would not trust these Jorskians to know aught of good tea. They’re as like to sell me bitter weed. I’ll wait till we’re in Kingsholm and I can find one of our own folk.”

Saskia had led the honor guard that had escorted Devlin and his companions from Alvaren to the Jorskian border. When they reached the border town of Kilbaran, the peacekeepers had turned back. All of them except Saskia, who had declared that her orders were to see Devlin safely returned to Kingsholm. He had tried to dissuade her, but his words had fallen on deaf ears.

He did not believe that Chief Mychal had ordered her to accompany him all the way to Kingsholm, and wondered why she had decided to leave Duncaer and embark on this long journey. Did she see this as a duty that she owed her lost comrade Cerrie? Or was her interest more personal? He had not missed the growing friendship between her and Lieutenant Didrik.

Whatever her reasons, he had not protested. Though their journey so far had been untroubled, an extra sword arm could prove useful. Especially given that one of their party was already hurt.

He looked over at Didrik, who clutched his mug in hands that trembled despite his best efforts to control them. Didrik’s complexion was gray with exhaustion, but he held himself erect as if refusing to admit that there was anything wrong.

Stephen finished his kava and set his mug on the nearest table before reaching for his cloak. “I’ll go get the saddlebags. If we hang our blankets by the fire, they’ll be dry by the time we finish eating and are ready to ride on.”

“A good thought, but we are not riding on today,” Devlin said. “The inn-wife has ordered our baggage brought to our rooms. If you go into the kitchen, she’ll show you where they are.”

Stephen’s eyes flickered in Didrik’s direction, then his gaze returned to Devlin’s face, nodding almost imperceptibly. “Of course. It’s too miserable a day to travel. I’ll take care of things,” he said.

“No,” Didrik growled, but it was a weak sound. “You’ll not stop on my account. I can ride.”

“I know that,” Devlin answered. Didrik could ride, and he would, right up until the moment it killed him. “We’re not stopping for you. We’re stopping because these damn cobblestones are slick with ice. I cannot risk another horse going down. This time someone might be seriously injured, then where would we be?”

A fortnight ago Didrik’s horse had slipped as they were descending a narrow switchback, and the others had watched in helpless horror as the horse began to fall. Didrik had managed to kick himself free from the stirrups, and thus avoid being crushed by his mount. But his tumble down the hillside had snapped several ribs, undoing the work of those who had healed him in Duncaer.

The accident could have befallen any of them. It was the Gods’ own luck that it had been Didrik who happened to be in the lead as they began their descent. Another might have suffered mere bruises and discomfort, but Didrik had been vulnerable—as his newly healed ribs had been no match for the strain.

At least Didrik had lived. His mount had snapped a foreleg, and Devlin had put the beast out of its misery. They had done what they could for Didrik, binding his ribs and taking turns walking while Didrik rode, until they reached the next village where a suitable mount could be procured.

The delay had chafed Devlin, though he knew it was unavoidable. Since that time he had done his best to take things slowly, fighting the maddening pull of the Geas, which urged him to return to Kingsholm with all haste. But despite shortened days of journeying, and ensuring that Didrik did no unnecessary labor, Didrik was growing weaker, not stronger. He could not keep up the pace much longer.

And yet what choice did they have? Even now, there was a part of Devlin’s mind that pulled him toward Kingsholm, reminding him that if he rode hard, he could be there in less than a fortnight. Were he to listen to its call, he would leave here at once, setting off without friends or protection, heedless of anything except the need to fulfill his oath and return the Sword of Light to Kingsholm.

He stretched his right hand out and touched the scabbard of the sword, feeling strangely comforted as he did so. Since he had reclaimed the sword, it had seldom been more than a few feet away from him. It was as if the sword were a part of him, or perhaps a part of the Geas that ruled him. Even when the sword was out of his sight, he always knew precisely where it was.

Indeed it was hard to remember that there had been a time when he had not held this sword, not valued it for the superb weapon it was. That there had been a time when he had once been a craftsman, renowned for the jewelry he created, who had seen only the beauty of the sword’s crafting. But the past three years had changed him, and with or without the fabled sword, no one would ever mistake him for anything other than a warrior.

He wondered how the King and court would react to his return. They knew that he was on his way; the wretched soul stone would have told them as much, as it faithfully tracked every league of his travels. But did they think him returning in triumph? Or in failure? They had dispatched him on a fool’s errand, sending him to seek a sword that had been lost in battle nearly fifty years ago. It had been a brilliant plan, for it had taken Devlin far away from the one place he could have influenced the course of events in Jorsk. In Kingsholm Devlin was not just the Chosen One, he was also a King’s councilor and the General of the Royal Army. While he was at court he could use his power and influence to challenge the conservative council—hold King Olafur to his promise to seek true reform.

His few friends at court might be hopeful, but perhaps it was better that the rest of the court think him returning to report his failure. They could use this pretext to strip Devlin of his post as Chosen One and the titles he had earned. Disgraced, he would be no threat to anyone.

They would never expect that Devlin had done the impossible and found the lost sword. The common people would see his success as proof that he had indeed been chosen by the Gods—as uncomfortable as that idea made him feel. And Devlin would become too powerful for the court to ignore. So if his enemies even suspected he might have the sword, they would try to destroy him before he reached Kingsholm.

That his journey had passed untroubled so far spoke much about their probable contempt for his abilities.

The door to the common room swung open, and the inn-wife entered, followed by an elderly man.

“Sir, this is Jonam, the healer I spoke of,” Kasja said.

Jonam might have been a strong man in his day, but his broad shoulders were stooped with age, and what hair he had left was the color of pewter. He wore no torc, but slung across one shoulder was a well-worn leather pack marked with the sigil of Lady Geyra, the patron of healers.

“The inn-wife tells me that you are a true healer,” Devlin said.

“I was a healer of the second rank,” Jonam replied. “I served at the temple in Skarnes for nearly fifty years, but when my power waned, I returned to where I had lived as a boy.”

Even the smallest of villages had someone who served as bonesetter or herbalist, but true healers were rare. While a few of Lady Geyra’s servants wandered the roads, most were to be found in city temples or attached to a noble’s household. Finding a healer of the second rank, even one who no longer practiced his craft, was an unexpected gift, and the reason why Devlin had chosen to spend the night in this place.

“My companion is in need of your services,” Devlin said.

“No I am not,” Didrik insisted, but then a fit of coughing gave the lie to his words.

“What harm can it do?” Stephen said. “We are here, and the healer is here, so why not speak with him?”

Didrik shook his head. “I just need to catch my breath is all.”

One could almost believe him, if you did not notice his fever-bright eyes, or how his right arm was wrapped around his ribs to ease their pain.

“This is not a choice,” Devlin said. “Mistress Kasja, if you would be so kind as to show Didrik and the healer to a chamber?”

The inn-wife nodded. “Of course. If you would come with me?”

Saskia rose to follow, but Didrik waved her back. After a moment she returned to her seat.

The inn-wife and her son came in, bearing bowls of hot soup and a platter of freshly baked bread. A hot midday meal was an unaccustomed luxury for the travelers, and Devlin gave himself over to its appreciation. For the moment at least, he refused to think of what would happen if the healer could not help Didrik.

The soup was strange, with a watery broth rather than the thick cream Saskia was accustomed to. Floating amidst the generous chunks of chicken were strange lumps of dough. Tentatively she bit one, and found that it was filled with mashed tubers. Still, for all its strangeness, the soup was warm, and Saskia eagerly devoured one bowl, then a second.

Her companions were quiet, apart from murmured requests to pass the bread. Devlin’s silence came as no surprise. Never talkative to begin with, he had grown increasingly withdrawn since Didrik’s accident. Stephen’s restraint was a different matter, for on an ordinary day the minstrel was like to chatter about anything and nothing. But perhaps Devlin’s silence was infectious, or perhaps it was merely that Stephen’s thoughts, like Saskia’s, were with their friend.

A true warrior, Didrik had not once complained about the pain of his broken ribs, or asked that his companions slow their pace to accommodate his weakness. He bore his injuries with a grim stoicism that impressed Saskia. But will alone could only do so much, and she feared that he had reached the end of his endurance.

When the healer reentered the room, he was alone. It was not a good sign.

“What say you?” Devlin asked.

“He has the lung sickness,” Jonam replied.