Finally, he turned his attention to the long sword that hung in a place of honor on his wall. This was the sword given to him by Captain Drakken, the sword that had ended the life of the traitorous Duke Gerhard. It had served him well, and yet if he was successful, he would replace it with a blade of more dubious lineage.
He took the sword down from the wall and drew it from its scabbard. Crossing to the workbench, he turned the blade over in the bright lamplight, then ran the fingertips of his left hand over the blade. As he had suspected, there were several nicks in the edge of the steel, reminders of how poorly his last practice bout had gone. Placing the blade so the edge hung over the table, he used his right forearm to hold the blade steady as he ran the sharpening stone along it with his left. The rhythm of the work soothed him, reminding him of a simpler time when his ambition had extended no further than the walls of his smithy.
A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Signy standing at the door.
“Brother Arni begs a moment of your time, sir,” she said.
Devlin nodded, putting down the sharpening stone, and rose to his feet.
As Brother Arni appeared in the doorway, Devlin saw that the priest was wearing the elaborate gold-stitched robe that was reserved for the high feast days.
“Enter and be welcome,” Devlin said, in formal greeting.
“I know it is late, Chosen One, but I could not retire until I knew your wishes,” Brother Arni said, with a nervous jerk of his head. “I have been waiting this day to bless you for your journey. When you did not come, I began to think that maybe you planned to attend the dawn services, but I wished to be certain. I had sent you a message but there was no reply …”
“I see.” No doubt Brother Arni’s missive was among those scrolls he had so callously discarded.
“I thank you for your consideration,” Devlin said, choosing his words carefully. This man had helped save his life and he owed him his respect. But he would not lie to him and pretend to a piety he did not feel.
“Then I will see you at the dawn service? I know the people of the palace will be glad to join you in requesting the blessing of the Gods.”
Devlin felt his mouth twist; he wanted no part of this. “I will ask for no blessing. Pray for me if you must, but I will not speak to your Gods.”
Brother Arni’s brow wrinkled in apparent puzzlement. “But they are your Gods, as well. The Gods of both our peoples. You swore your service in the name of Lord Kanjti.”
Devlin felt the bitterness well up inside him and he could not remain still. Crossing over to the sideboard, he picked up the bottle of wine and pulled out the stopper.
“Will you take wine?” He did not wait for an answer, but poured two goblets, then carried one over to the priest before taking his own and settling in a chair near the fire.
Brother Arni sat gingerly in the opposite chair and took one sip of his wine before setting the goblet aside.
Devlin took a long draught of his own.
“I bear you no ill-will,” Devlin said. “I respect you, and am grateful for the aid you have given me. But I will not beg the Gods for favors. I have had enough of their interference in my life. Do I make myself plain?”
“I do not understand.”
Devlin drained his goblet, the fine vintage tasting like so much vinegar water. Then he set the goblet aside and ran his left hand through his hair as he gathered his thoughts.
“Brother, tell me. Do you think the Gods favor your Kingdom above all others? Is there some reason they hold Jorsk in such high regard?”
This was the question that had haunted him since he first beheld that damning portrait and realized that he had known all along where the mythical Sword of Light could be found. The moment he realized the strange trick that destiny had played upon him.
The moment that he had realized that he had been truly cursed by the Gods, made a mere pawn in their games.
Brother Arni did not hesitate in his response. “The Seven offer their blessings to all those who honor them, and who strive to live just lives. No one country has the exclusive claim to their favor, though there are some that have turned their face from them and suffer accordingly.”
“So I once thought,” Devlin said. “But you also believe that the Chosen One is sent by the Gods, do you not?”
“Of course. Though there were doubters when you were first called to serve, those of weak faith soon learned the error of doubting the Gods’ choices.”
The priest beamed happily at this reminder of how his faith in the Gods he served had been proven to all.
“I did not think myself God-touched,” Devlin said softly, his gaze on the flickering flames. “I became the Chosen One because I needed the coins, and I wanted to die. It was only later that I came to realize that my life still had purpose, and that there were those I could protect with my service.”
“Your heart was always good, even when your mind was confused,” Brother Arni said. “The Gods knew this, and this is why they called you.”
“Is it? The Gods have no interest in my heart. They did not call me so I could use my strength and wits to protect the innocent. They chose me so I could fetch the damn sword that your people so carelessly lost.”
“I do not understand,” Brother Arni said.
Of course he did not. The priest saw only the light and missed the dark shadows that it cast. To him being Chosen One was a glorious calling. He had no idea of how the Gods had twisted the lives of Devlin and his family, to bring him to this point.
Angry words trembled on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed hard and forced them back. This man was not his enemy. Brother Arni was not responsible for what had happened to Devlin. It was not his fault that the Gods he served were undeserving of his faith.
Brother Arni stared searchingly at him for a moment, then sighed. “I will pray for you,” he said.
“You will do as you must, and I will do the same.”
Five
THEY LEFT KINGSHOLM AT DAWN. IN AN ATTEMPT to throw off any watchers, there were no well-wishers, nor ceremony to mark their leaving. Even the guards at the eastern gate had been warned to forgo the formal salute, letting Devlin’s party blend with the other travelers hastening to return to their homes before winter set in.
Nils Didrik flexed his hands within their leather riding gloves, trying to keep them warm and limber. He could feel winter’s approach as a palpable presence. Gray clouds overhead threatened rain, while the paving stones beneath the horses hooves were rimed with frost. It seemed a poor omen for the start of the journey. All too soon those same clouds would bring snow and ice, and then where would they be?
The frosty weather was matched by the icy silence of their party. Devlin had said scarce a dozen words as they readied themselves for departure, and nothing since. Even the normally cheerful Stephen had forgone his usual chatter in deference to Devlin’s grim mood.
By contrast, even at this hour the streets were crowded and noisy. Farmers called greetings to one another as they pulled handcarts or drove laden wagons carrying the last of their harvest in to sell at the market in Kingsholm. Day laborers who lived outside the city walls chattered among themselves as they made their way to their jobs within the city. Against this tide a small but steady stream of travelers headed east. Traders who planned on wintering in the provinces, bearing goods from the capital. Brightly dressed messengers on fine horses, carrying noble correspondence. Perhaps even a courtier or two, who had tarried overlong in the capital and now sought to return home before the first snows.
Didrik scanned the crowd ahead of him, but could see nothing unusual. He glanced behind, and saw Stephen following a few lengths back, leading their packhorse. Everything seemed just as it should be, and yet he could not shake his feeling of unease.
He took a deep breath and willed himself to calmness. They were still in sight of the outer walls, where safety should be assured. There was no reason for fear.
And
yet he could not help but be afraid. Until last spring he had never been farther than a dozen leagues from Kingsholm. Now he was expected to journey across the length of the kingdom to the wilds of Duncaer. A place where the natives spoke their own tongue and held to their own customs, and danger might well come in a guise that he would not recognize until it was too late.
Last spring he’d had a squad of trusted guards with him, along with Ensign Mikkelson and the dubious protection of the Royal Army. There had been two dozen blades to keep the Chosen One safe, and even then they had nearly failed. Now there was just himself. For while no one could doubt Stephen’s courage, at heart he was a minstrel. He lacked the instincts of one trained to detect danger or sense the mood of a hostile crowd. Stephen could hold his own in a fight, but he could be taken off guard by a stealthy attack.
And then there was Devlin. Devlin had the instincts of a warrior and an ingrained caution that had saved his life on more than one occasion. But that was before the duel had left Devlin with a crippled hand. And before the discovery of that cursed painting, which had plunged Devlin into a mood of black despair. Now, if an assassin struck, Devlin might well choose to embrace death again.
It was Didrik’s duty to keep Devlin safe, in spite of the Chosen One’s inclinations. It was a task he would entrust to no other, and yet at the same time he could not help wishing that he had been permitted to bring just one trusted guard. Someone to watch their backs. Even the greatest of warriors needed to sleep.
“We are being followed,” Devlin said, breaking into Didrik’s musings. “I count three in their number. One riding before us, and a pair of farmers driving a cart behind.”
Devlin reined his horse to a halt, and Didrik drew his horse up alongside. He turned to peer through the crowded streets behind them. He could see the wagon but not the driver, so he stood up in the stirrups. After a moment, the crowd parted, and the driver came into view.
“The rider in front of us is Behra. I recognized his build, and his miserable seat on a horse. But who are the pair behind us? Yours? Or someone else’s?” Devlin asked. There was only mild curiosity in his tone, but Didrik knew he was in trouble.
At least there was nothing wrong with Devlin’s observational skills.
“They are ours.”
Stephen drew up alongside them, and Devlin gestured for him to ride on ahead.
“I ordered that we were to have no escort,” Devlin said. “Did I fail to make myself clear? Or have you decided that you need no longer heed my commands?”
Didrik swallowed hard. “They are not an escort. Their orders are to follow us for today, and to try and spot if anyone else is paying undue attention to our passing. If all is well, tomorrow they will return to the capital.”
“Whose idea was this?”
“Mine,” Didrik said. He knew better than to lie to the Chosen One. “Captain Drakken approved. As a precaution, nothing more.”
Devlin shook his head. “If I can spot the watchers, then so can others. And as for the risk, if someone is following us, they will not be so foolish as to strike here, where we are still within sight of Kingsholm’s walls.”
“They can’t attack if they can’t find us,” Didrik argued. “And the more distance we put between us and Kingsholm, the harder it will be to pick up our trail.”
“If they lose our trail, they need only to journey to Duncaer. There are only a few passes that lead into the mountains. If they set watchers on them all, they will find us easily enough. They won’t attack while we are in your country.”
Would that he shared Devlin’s confidence.
“Why not?”
“This expedition is a gift to my enemies, getting me out of their way without their having to shed a single drop of blood. I am far more use to them as a living fool, off on a useless quest. Dead, I could be turned into a martyr. They will not risk killing me. Not while we are still close enough for news to reach the capital.”
“And when we reach your homeland?”
“Duncaer is a different matter,” Devlin said. His eyes sought out the figure of Stephen, who now rode before them. “As a lore teller, Stephen’s life is sacred to the Caerfolk. But you and I will have to be vigilant. Should I regain the sword, then we will face the greatest danger. There will be many of your people and my own who do not wish to see the Sword of Light returned to Jorsk.”
It was something he had not considered. Didrik had thought only of getting to Duncaer and finding the lost sword. He knew full well that Devlin had made enemies both within Jorsk and among those countries that sought to conquer her. Now it seemed that Devlin would have enemies in his own land as well.
“Is there anything else you have forgotten to tell me? For if I find you have deceived me—” Devlin began.
“No,” Didrik said firmly. “I swear by my oath that there is no deception. I set the watchers to guard our departure, but that is all. The rest you know.”
Devlin’s eyes searched his, and Didrik forced himself to return the gaze calmly. Then Devlin nodded once, and Didrik knew he had been reprieved.
“Cross my will again, and I will leave you behind,” Devlin promised.
“I understand,” Didrik said. But he knew better than to promise that he would never disobey one of Devlin’s orders. In the end, the Chosen One’s safety was his responsibility. It was up to him to protect Devlin—even from himself.
Didrik’s fears proved unfounded, for the first day of the journey passed without incident, and the guards were sent back to the capital. He remained alert, but as the days passed, he realized that there was no sign that anyone was following them. Though this did not mean that they were safe from danger. On the contrary, messengers could have been sent ahead to arrange an ambush. Still, the Chosen One was likely correct when he said that any trouble would come once they were far from Kingsholm.
Devlin remained aloof, speaking to Didrik only when the journey required he do so. At first he suspected that Devlin had not forgiven him for ignoring his orders about the escort, but then Didrik noticed that he treated Stephen with the same coldness. Though it was difficult to tell if Stephen minded, for he was invariably cheerful.
Unlike their last journey, Devlin did not insist on pressing on after sunset, or leaving before dawn. But still there was an underlying sense of urgency, and regardless of the weather, they started each day’s ride at dawn and seldom stopped before sunset.
The early stages of the journey took them along the great southern highway, a well-traveled road where even the smallest of villages boasted an inn to host travelers. In the larger towns, the innkeepers took Devlin’s presence in stride, being used to noble guests. But in the small villages the Chosen One was an unexpected novelty, and the innkeepers strove to offer their very best to such a famous lord. It became Didrik’s lot to try to convince them that Devlin appreciated simple fare and an absence of ceremony.
However, on this day driving rain had slowed their progress, and as night fell they made camp in a small clearing a stone’s throw from the road. With no moon to see by, it was too dangerous to continue in the dark. Didrik watered the horses at a small stream and set out grain for them while Stephen and Devlin set up the tent. After some struggling Devlin managed to light a small fire at the edge of the tree line and boiled water so they could have hot kava to wash down the dried meat and cheese.
Once the rain had stopped, they sat around the fire as they ate.
Stephen leaned back against a tree, his feet stretched toward the fire. In his right hand he held a chunk of cheese, which he peered at with vague dismay before sighing and taking a bite.
“The inns are making you soft,” Didrik said, not bothering to hide his smile. “You’ve forgotten what it is like to travel rough.”
Not that Didrik had been able to muster any enthusiasm for the cold meal, but he had eaten his rations without complaint. As had Devlin. Indeed it struck him that he couldn’t recall hearing Devlin complain about food. Ever.
Devlin w
as known to obsess about ale from Duncaer, and to despise most wines. But if he found Jorskian food as strange as its drink, he had never said so.
“I have traveled in rougher conditions than this,” Stephen said. “And last spring, when we journeyed to Korinth, you did not hear me complaining. I even ate Olga’s cooking, which was enough to try any man.”
Didrik swallowed reflexively, as he remembered the strange, greasy, half-raw and half-charred meal. The rules of their expedition had said that each member should take their turn at cooking, but Olga was living proof why there should be exceptions to every rule.
“But I see no harm in staying in inns when providence has placed them in our path. Nor in preferring a hot meal over a cold one,” Stephen continued.
Devlin spoke for the first time. “Here, at least we have peace. No gawkers come to stare, no hovering inn servants who hang on your every word until one can scarcely think.”
“You cannot blame them. How often does a town get to play host to a hero?” Stephen asked.
Didrik winced, knowing how little Devlin wished to be reminded of his heroics.
“And for that I have your brethren to blame,” Devlin said. “If I hear one more child singing how Haakon’s hand steadied the blade …”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Stephen said, throwing up his hands. “The song is badly written. The rhyme barely scans, though the tune is catchy enough. If I had written a song about the duel—”
“I’ve heard your song making,” Devlin said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “What were those words? The heart of a wolf? The courage of a she-lion?”
Stephen flushed and ducked his head. “I have written better.”
“And you will write more. But not about me.” He turned to Didrik, and asked, “How many leagues do you think we made today? Four?”
“Closer to five,” Didrik said. Being a royal highway, the Southern Road was paved stone, which was a boon to travelers. Even rain had not slowed them down too much, for they had planned to journey six leagues today, and managed nearly five. The real test would come ahead, when they left the royal highway for packed-dirt roads. Rain would turn the roads to mud, and a cold snap would freeze the muddy ruts into icy puddles that would require great care on the part of both horse and rider.
Devlin's Honor Page 5
