The assassin raised his sword in salute, then smiled grimly. “Chosen One, you are a worthy foe,” he said.
Devlin paused, waiting for the words of surrender.
Instead, the assassin reversed the sword, and plunged it deep into his own belly. Blood spurted from the wound, as the assassin fell to his knees and toppled over on his right side.
Devlin knelt beside his fallen enemy, but it was already too late. A skilled healer might have saved him, but without such a healer the man would be dead within minutes.
“Damn,” Devlin cursed.
Captain Drakken handed her sword over to the equerry and straightened her dress tunic. It had taken three days and a series of increasingly undiplomatic requests before King Olafur had finally consented to see her.
A chamberman opened the door to the King’s inner chamber. “Your Majesty, Captain Drakken has arrived,” he announced.
She took three paces into the room, then stopped, bowing low as if this was a formal court appearance. She held the pose for a dozen heartbeats and straightened to attention. The King might be dressed in a quilted robe more suited for the bedroom than giving audiences, but that did not mean that he would tolerate any informality from her.
“Tell me, Drakken, what message do you have that is so urgent you threaten my steward when he comes to speak in my place?”
She crossed the room until she stood a mere half dozen paces from the King, then stood once more at attention. “A royal messenger came bearing the news that the Chosen One was attacked by assassins.”
“I have heard this news as well,” King Olafur said. He turned slightly away from her. Reaching into a crystal bowl filled with precious glasshouse fruit, he withdrew a yellow pear, then picked up a small silver knife. “I fail to see why this is a concern of yours. Devlin survived, did he not? Another glorious triumph for the Chosen One, as he defeats a band of petty thieves.”
King Olafur carefully began to peel the skin of the pear, seeming far more interested in the fruit than he was in the fate of the Chosen One.
“These were not mere bandits. The report I received described them as skilled swordsmen, at least two of whom spoke with the accent of Kingsholm.”
King Olafur shook his head, not even bothering to look up from his task. “Devlin is a foreigner and hardly likely to know one of our accents from another. And as for the skill of the swordsmen, surely he is mistaken there as well. The tale I heard was that the odds were four against three, yet Devlin and his party managed to kill all four attackers without receiving a single blow in return? Surely skilled swordsmen would have been able to draw blood.”
“If you had read the report yourself, you would have seen that it came from Lieutenant Didrik. He is an experienced officer, well able to judge the accents and the skill of those who attacked.”
From Devlin himself she had heard nothing. She wondered if he even knew that Didrik had sent a report back to the capital. His report had been brief, as if hastily scrawled, but she had the impression that their survival had been as much a matter of luck as of skill.
“This lieutenant is your man, so of course you stand by him. Pity we will have to wait until our wandering servants return before we can question them fully on this matter. As for the present, I see no reason to alarm ourselves unduly.”
His lack of concern infuriated her, as did his implied slur upon the competence of her Guard. She wondered if he was deliberately trying to provoke her or distract her from her mission. But she was no novice to be so easily led.
It had taken a fortnight for word of the attack to reach her in Kingsholm, and any help she could send had no chance of catching up to Devlin before he crossed the border over into Duncaer. Instead, she had to hope that Didrik would persuade Devlin to see reason and arrange for soldiers from the border garrison to serve as their escort.
But that did not mean that she was entirely helpless.
“The report from Lieutenant Didrik spoke of four swordsmen who had been trained to work together. These were no common thieves or back-alley murderers. Even in Kingsholm, trained swordsmen are not common. They must have been part of someone’s retinue. Armsmen or dueling instructors, perhaps. The disappearance of four such is bound to be noticed. All I need is your permission to question those nobles who remain in the city.”
Find out who was missing four swordsmen, and she would find out who was behind the attempt on Devlin’s life. Even if Didrik had been wrong about the accents, it did no harm to look here first. At least two of Devlin’s most vocal critics had decided to winter over in the capital rather than returning to their own estates. And if inquiries here proved fruitless, she could widen the scope of her investigation, beginning with those whose estates were closest to the capital. For the assassins to have caught up with Devlin on the road, they must have left soon after Devlin himself, or have come from one of the towns that lay along the Southern Road.
“No,” King Olafur said.
She rocked back on her heels. “Your pardon, Majesty, but I do not understand.”
Did the King already know who had hired the assassins?
“I will not give you permission to badger my nobles,” King Olafur replied. He sliced off a chunk of the now-peeled fruit and ate it with two sharp bites. “I will not let you use this attack as an excuse to cast doubt upon those who have opposed Devlin in council.”
“But—”
“I have spoken,” King Olafur said. “There is to be no investigation. Not until you bring me proof that these men were from Kingsholm.”
Any proof had died along with Devlin’s attackers, as King Olafur surely knew.
She wondered at his motive for refusing to allow her investigation. As Captain of the City Guard she had broad powers to investigates crimes both high and low, though custom held that she obtain the King’s consent before investigating one of his nobles for possible treason. His refusal made no sense. Were he anyone else, she would have suspected that he had something to hide and thus thwarted her investigation.
Yet even as the thought occurred to her, she dismissed it as being absurd. If he truly wished to be rid of the Chosen One, then King Olafur had merely to dismiss Devlin from his post. He had no need to set killers upon Devlin’s trail.
The King was simply allowing his dislike for Devlin’s politics to color his judgment, and thus dismissed this threat as insignificant. And he saw her role in this as Devlin’s ally, driven by partisan politics. Forgotten was the twenty-five years of faithful service that she had given to King Olafur and his father before him. The King had made it plain that he no longer trusted her impartiality.
“I understand, Your Majesty,” she said, realizing that he was still waiting her response. “Do you have any further instructions for me?”
“No,” King Olafur said. He waved the hand holding the paring knife toward the door. “You may leave, and the next time you feel the urge to disturb me with nonsense, I suggest you think twice.”
She swallowed hard. It was clear from his tone that her next misstep might cost her her post.
“Of course, Your Majesty. I regret having troubled you,” she said.
She kept her face expressionless as she backed out of the room and accepted her sword from the equerry. She left the King’s chambers, speaking to no one as she made her way through the palace, down the long stairs, and then across the courtyard to the Guard Hall. Only when she was in the sanctum of her office, with the door closed behind her, did she allow herself to relax.
“Of all the damn fools. In the name of the Seven, I swear he will lead us all to our deaths,” she cursed, giving vent to her anger. Not only had King Olafur once again put his self-interest ahead of the welfare of the Kingdom, he had made it clear that he no longer trusted those who dared disagree with him. She would have to be very careful indeed if she wished to retain her post. And hope that Devlin found the damn sword and returned to Kingsholm before the King lost patience with her.
With the King’s approval or no
, she had no intention of giving up the search to identify Devlin’s attackers. If an open investigation was not possible, then she would investigate in secret, relying upon a handful of her most trusted guards. She would find out the identity of Devlin’s enemies, and once she had proof, she would force the King to mete out justice.
Seven
THE SCENT OF SPILLED BLOOD AND BOWELS WAS heavy on the air, as the bodies of their attackers had been dragged over near the fire so they could be examined.
Devlin watched, as Didrik took on the grim task of searching the bodies of their attackers. The attackers carried no tokens or badges, not even coins that could be used to identify the district they came from. Devlin examined their weapons, which were similarly unrevealing. The tapered dueling swords had no household marks or unit crests on their hilts. Such swords were commonly used by officers of the Royal Army, and by those nobles who fancied themselves as duelists.
“I found nothing,” Didrik said in disgust, standing up from the last body and wiping his hands carefully on a rag. “Their baggage could tell us more, if we could find the spot where they left their horses.”
Devlin, too, had noticed that the attackers wore finely made riding boots. After discovering Devlin’s campsite, the attackers must have journeyed farther along the road and hidden their horses, then crept back through the woods hoping to surprise the sleeping travelers. No doubt this was the source of their earlier disturbance.
He knew their survival was a matter of sheer luck. He did not deserve to be alive, for he had been foolish beyond all reason. First he had chosen a campsite so close to the road that any passerby could see the glow of their fire. And while he had set a watch, he had not truly believed they were in danger. He had been convinced that his enemies preferred a live Chosen One off on a foolish quest to a dead martyr. After all, if Devlin were killed, they would have to deal with a new Chosen One.
So confident had he been that he had ignored the basic cautions which had kept him alive for so long. His throwing knives, which could have made all the difference in the first moments of the fight, had been tucked away in his saddlebags. Worse yet, he had left his axe behind when he went to check on the horses. If the attackers had struck mere moments sooner, he would not have had time to retrieve his axe, and instead would have had to face them with a mere dagger.
After the fight, he had cleaned his weapons and strapped on his throwing knives. For the first time since his injury he strapped on his right-hand knife, adjusting the harness so it did not chafe the ridged scar tissue. His aim with that arm was still chancy, but he reasoned that even a poorly aimed throw could provide a distraction.
“It is too dark now, but we can search the woods in the morning,” Stephen said, from his seat on the fallen tent. The blood on his tunic had been his enemy’s, not his own, but his ribs had been bruised by the fall, so Devlin had ordered him to rest.
“No,” Devlin said. “While we are wasting time searching the woods, others can find us. Our best strategy is to make haste. We will continue our journey, but be on our guard for trouble.”
“A moving target is harder to hit,” Didrik agreed.
In the days that followed they kept vigilant watch, but saw no sign that they were being followed. The farther they journeyed from Kingsholm, the smaller the towns became, and the more widely spaced. Eynford was a mere speck on the map, but it had the virtue of being the last town of any size before they would reach the Kenwye River and cross over into what had once been the lowlands of Duncaer.
Devlin grimaced. The Jorskians called the territory Saemundsland, but not even in his own mind would he give that much respect to the butcher of Ynnis. Instead, he followed the custom of his people and called them the stolen lands, for the Jorskians had taken the fertile lowlands for their own, turning honest Caer farmers into refugees in their own country. After fifty years the stolen lands were indistinguishable from other provinces of Jorsk, farmed by descendants of the conquering armies who had been given land grants. Only in the mountains did the old Caer ways still hold sway.
It would take them several days to cross the lowlands. Ten days, if the weather held fair. Then another three days to climb the foothills till they reached the town of Kilbaran. And then he would see his people and hear his language spoken for the first time in nearly two years.
It was a journey he had never thought to make. Even in his dreams, when he imagined a life free from the burdens of the Chosen One, he had never pictured himself returning to Duncaer. How could he? There was no place for him there. A man who had neither family nor craft did not exist. He would be as a foreigner in his own country. Worse than a foreigner, for Jorskian traders were granted the courtesy due to outlanders. But for a man who had been declared kinbereft there would be no courtesy, only cold silences and empty gazes that slid over his form rather than acknowledging his presence.
In Jorsk it was easier to pretend that he was still a man. There he had made a place for himself, and found those he called friends. In Kingsholm there were no reminders of all he had lost. But once he crossed the border into Duncaer, he would be surrounded by the reminders of all that he had once been part of, and could never be again.
They had reached the town of Eynford at midday, and paused to exchange their mounts for sturdy ponies that would be better suited to the rugged mountain terrain ahead. Devlin had overseen the purchasing of the new ponies, but had left Didrik in charge of taking the ponies to be shod. He had no wish to set foot in a smithy.
But perhaps that had been a mistake, for it left him alone with his thoughts, which had grown increasingly grim as they journeyed toward his homeland.
Devlin lifted his cup of bitter red wine and drained it dry. Then he set the cup down precisely in the center of the table and leaned back in his chair. He was a pathetic excuse for a man, hiding here in the inn simply because he could not bring himself to greet one who practiced his former craft. This journey would open enough old wounds, and he saw no reason to rub salt in them. It would be hard enough to face Murchadh once they reached Kilbaran.
Stephen had gone off to restock their provisions, leaving Devlin alone, ensconced in the best room of the town’s finest inn. Not that it would be given a second glance in Kingsholm, but the place was clean, the wine drinkable, and the staff left him alone, which was what he needed. Traveling with companions eased the burden of the journey, but Devlin had had very little time to himself. And he needed time to prepare himself for what was to come. And time to think. For there was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind. A voice that had grown stronger as the leagues had disappeared beneath their horses’ hooves. A voice that said that there was something he had overlooked. Something that he had forgotten, that would place them all in danger.
There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” he commanded.
The door swung open, revealing the figure of Jensine, the inn-wife. “If you please, Lord Devlin, there are callers in the common room who beg the favor of your presence.”
Devlin sighed. He had been expecting something like this. At every place where he had been recognized, there had been folk eager to meet the Chosen One. Sometimes they simply wished to see him, to say that they had seen the legend in person. Others wished to curry favor, as if he had any to give. But usually it took them more than a few hours to work up the courage to seek him out, and in most cases he and his companions were long gone by then.
“I have no time for idle gossip. Tell them begone.”
Jensine shook her head, her double chins quivering with indignation. “I know better than to trouble a noble guest with idlers. These folk have come seeking the Chosen One to settle a dispute.”
There was no point in reminding her that he was not a nobleman. At least she had stopped bowing to him.
“Have you no lawgiver?”
She looked at him blankly, and he tried again. “Why not send for the magistrate? Surely there is one nearby, if you have none of your own.”
“They have already s
een the magistrate, and sent to the lord for justice. And still the quarrel goes on, and the factions have gone from angry words to exchanging blows. I fear that soon it will come to killing. I would not trouble you elsewise.”
He wondered how they expected him to solve their problems when both the magistrate and their lord had been unable to do so. He was no lawgiver, merely a metalsmith turned warrior. He had no words of wisdom to share with these people, and no patience for their quarrels. He was of a mind to refuse, but his sense of duty would not let him. The Chosen One was empowered to dispense both high and low justice. It was part of his task, like it or not. And since he was idle, he could not plead other pressing duties instead.
Devlin rose to his feet. “Lead me to them, and I will do what I may.”
As Jensine led the way down the passage, he heard raised voices coming from the common room. It sounded as if half the town had gathered, but when he stepped inside he found that there were only a dozen or so people.
The folk were clearly divided into two factions. On one side there was a tall haughty woman who looked down her sharp features at the man opposite her. The woman yelled, her voice shrill and her words indistinguishable, while the man’s reply was an angry growl. Arranged beside and behind each of the two were their supporters, who waved their hands and added their own voices to the din.
“Good people,” the inn-wife called. “Sunniva. Klemens.”
The quarreling folk paid her no heed. Devlin kicked his heel back, slamming the door shut behind him.
There was a brief gasp and the folk fell silent, turning to stare.
“If you have no time for me, I will leave,” Devlin said.
The woman was the first to recover. “My lord Chosen One, forgive our rudeness. We welcome your presence, and your wisdom,” she said with a graceful curtsy.
“Will you still call it wisdom when he decides in my favor?” the man asked. Then he turned to Devlin and gave a bow. “My lord.”
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