“This is no pleasure trip. Devlin returned because he was bidden to do so, to search for the Sword of Light.”
“Of all the damn fool ideas. The sword has been lost for fifty years, and now he thinks to find it? Will he spend the next decade digging up the ruins of Ynnis?”
“This was not his choice. And as for finding the sword, Devlin does not intend to tarry long. He will be needed back in Kingsholm by the summer, for he fears invasion is not far off.”
It was the only reassurance he could give. Devlin had forbidden him to explain to the commander, or indeed to anyone, that they already knew that the sword had not been lost in Ynnis.
“What does he wish of me?”
“Simply to ask that you and your troops keep an eye out for those who show an interest in the Chosen One and his destination. We will have to pass through Kilbaran upon our return, and would not wish any unpleasant surprises.”
“Of course. And I will send a squad of my best with you as escort to Ynnis.”
“Thank you, but no,” Didrik said. He had no reason to distrust the commander, but neither was there any reason to reveal that Ynnis was not their destination.
Commander Willemson frowned. “I hope you have enough troops to keep him safe.”
Didrik murmured in agreement. He was not about to reveal that Devlin’s bodyguard consisted of a mere two people.
“If he will not accept my soldiers, then the least I can do is to give him advice. Tell the Chosen One to be careful whom he trusts. The rebels may wish to use him as a figurehead for their revolution—or to kill him as a traitor.”
Ten
MURCHADH LIFTED A FORKFUL OF MEAT TO HIS mouth. He chewed and swallowed with full deliberation, though the food had no taste. Indeed he was not even certain if the brown meat was mutton or pork. Instead his attention was fixed upon the strange collection of folk that had sat down to this meal.
At the head of the table sat his wife Alanna, presiding over the gathering with the graciousness that was her nature, making certain the guests received the best of everything and that the children were well behaved. Murchadh sat at the foot of the table opposite her. To his right sat their three children, Declan, the oldest at eight, then Ailill, and finally their baby Suisan, who had just turned five. On his left sat Devlin, then next to him the soldier Didrik, and finally the young minstrel Stephen.
Never had he imagined the day when they would welcome two Jorskians as guests in their home. Sharing their food, dining off their best plate. Though they seemed pleasant enough. Stephen had surprised Alanna by greeting her in the Caer tongue. He seemed a friendly sort, and even shy Suisan had warmed to him. It was hard to believe that his father was a noble lord.
On the other hand, Lieutenant Didrik was exactly what Murchadh expected a Jorskian to be. Slender, but well muscled, with the callused hands of a swordsman. His long blond hair was done up in a warrior’s braid, and his cold brown eyes seemed to take in everything, as if preparing to pass judgment. Not that he had said or done anything to offend. On the contrary, he had been well taught, for he had offered up his sword before entering the house. Though Murchadh would wager that there was at least one knife hidden on his person.
Didrik, at least, had been grateful that all of Murchadh’s family spoke his own tongue. From an early age all children were taught the tradespeech. Such was only prudent in a town where most earned their living by trading with those from Jorsk. Weavers and wool-dyers like Alanna made cloth that was sold in markets from Tamarack to Selvarat. Murchadh himself often dealt with Jorskian traders, shoeing their horses and the like. He knew Jorskians. But he did not understand them. Their ways were not his ways. It was the same all over Duncaer, wherever the two races had cause to mix. Both sides knew this, and understood that there was a line that one did not cross.
Not until tonight. Not until Devlin.
His eyes narrowed as he looked over at Devlin. His friend held a knife in his left hand and the fork in his right, eating with no signs of clumsiness. One had to look closely to see that he was maimed. Devlin’s hair was streaked with white, and there was a pale red scar around his neck. And there were changes of the soul as well. Devlin’s expression was guarded and his eyes hard. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He, who had once worn his emotions on his face for all to see.
Murchadh stared, trying to find some trace of the boy he had once known, the man who had been his friend. They had known each other for nearly twenty years. Apprenticed at the same forge, they had worked side by side for nearly a decade. Once they had been as close as brothers. Now he struggled to reconcile his knowledge of who Devlin had been with the reality of what he had become.
When the first messenger had arrived from Jorsk, bearing three golden disks, Murchadh had been astounded. And afraid, wondering how Devlin had come into such a fortune, since the messenger refused to say. The second messenger was equally tight-lipped. But the third messenger who had brought the final three golden disks, also brought the news that a foreigner named Devlin had been named Chosen One, champion of Jorsk.
It had seemed absurd. A jest. Devlin barely knew one end of a sword from another, and he had no love for their conquerors. And yet the nine golden disks, a fortune by any reckoning, said otherwise.
And then the tales began. The late-season traders told of the foreign champion who destroyed a lake monster, though few knew the name of this man, calling him only the Chosen One. Murchadh had spent a few sleepless nights worrying about his friend, only to scoff at his foolishness as he realized that these tales could not be about Devlin. There must be some other champion they spoke of. Then this past summer, they heard that the Chosen One had defeated the King’s champion in a duel, exposing his treachery. In reward for his service he was named General of the Royal Army. Marketplace gossip was swiftly followed by an official royal decree. Now all in Kilbaran knew the story of the metalsmith turned champion, Jorskian and Caerfolk alike.
Gossip painted Devlin as a fearless warrior who had faced countless dangers in his pursuit of justice. Murchadh had dismissed these tales as exaggerations. But now, seeing Devlin’s face, he wondered how many of them were true.
“More winter ale?” Alanna asked, lifting the enameled pitcher.
“If you would be so kind,” Stephen replied. He took the pitcher from her and filled his cup, then passed the pitcher to Didrik on his left.
Stephen lifted his cup, turning it in his hand to study the carved bowl and enameled base that turned an ordinary copper cup into something worthy of a King’s table. “This is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. I’ve seen enameled brooches but never have I seen it on such a scale, or done so well.”
“Each cup and plate match, yet no two are alike, are they?” Didrik asked.
The soldier had a keen eye.
“There are fourteen in all,” Alanna explained. “One for each of the twelve months, and one each in honor of the Heavenly Pair. See, Stephen, yours has the salmon of knowledge, and Nils, yours shows the flowers of early springtime. They were a wedding gift—”
“They were made for us by one of the greatest smiths Alvaren has ever seen,” Murchadh interrupted, ignoring Alanna’s frown. “Each piece has no less than a half dozen colors, and even after nine years, the colors are as clear today as they were when they were first fired.”
“A true craftsman indeed,” Didrik said.
Murchadh turned his gaze toward Devlin. “He was the youngest to be named Master Smith in living memory. All knew he was destined to create works of great beauty. In time he would have become Guild Master. Instead he threw it all away, turning his back on his craft to become a farmer.”
There was a low exclamation and a hiss of indrawn breath, but Murchadh had no eyes for anyone except his friend.
Devlin set down his cutlery with slow deliberate movements. “I did not leave Alvaren lightly. But when the time came, I chose family over craft. You would have done the same.”
“No.” Of this he was certain. Murchadh wo
uld have given his soul for one-tenth the talent that Devlin had possessed. He could not imagine anyone turning their back on such a gift.
“Alanna’s craft brought her here, and you followed, did you not? Why should my life be any different?”
“Because that was different. You were different. I could be a smith anywhere, it did not matter. Plain work such as mine does better in the outlands than it did in the capital. But you had the true gift.”
“It was not to be,” Devlin said, with a shrug.
“But you’ve come back now, so you’re going to be a smith again. You can share the forge with my father,” Declan said.
Devlin winced, a flash of pain so brief that he almost missed it. “My days as a smith are long over. Now I have a new task, and a new oath.”
“You could still teach,” Murchadh said stubbornly. “Even with a crippled hand, there is much you could do.”
“I do teach,” Devlin said. “But these days it is Cerrie’s craft I teach.”
Impossible. He had once been called Gentle Heart, Devlin of the Gifted Hands. It was impossible to think of him as a warrior. Soldiers were common but artists were all too rare and precious.
“You have your destiny—”
“Not as a metalsmith. Not anymore,” Devlin said. Then he turned to face Alanna, deliberately giving Murchadh a view of his stiff neck and back. “Tell me, is your sister Mari still in Alvaren?”
Alanna did not blink at the abrupt turn in the conversation, instead replying, “No, she finished her apprenticeship two years ago, and is now a trader in her own right. She planned to winter over in Darrow, last that we’d heard.”
“I am sure she is a skilled trader,” Devlin said.
Not wishing to quarrel in front of his children and the foreign guests, Murchadh held his tongue as the conversation turned to lighter topics, and Alanna told Devlin the news of their mutual acquaintances. There would be time later for him to speak with Devlin alone.
After dinner, the children begged until Stephen agreed to sing for them. Though he had no instrument, his voice was fine, and he sang “The Mountain Rose” as if he had been born speaking the Caer tongue. Then he switched to his own language, and began a silly song about a little boy who wished to be a dragon. The children were delighted, clapping their hands along with the refrain. Murchadh rose from his seat and left the parlor to visit the necessary. When he returned, he found the soldier standing in the hallway. Waiting for him.
“A word with you, if you would,” the soldier said.
Murchadh nodded. “Come, there is no one in the kitchen.” He led the way down the hall, then opened the door to the kitchen and walked in. The soldier followed, his eyes sweeping the kitchen seemingly by habit, as if confirming that they were indeed alone before shutting the door firmly behind them.
“You are Devlin’s friend, are you not?” Didrik asked.
“Yes.” Or rather he had been, and wished to be still. But he could not help wondering how Devlin would answer the question.
“Then why do you torment him?”
“What?” He had not meant to raise his voice, and looked toward the door, hoping that the sound of the music had covered his outburst.
“You know he can never be a metalsmith again, so why do you throw that in his face? Why are you punishing him?” The soldier drew himself up to his full height, his body radiating tension. The fingers of his right hand drummed restlessly on his belt, where the scabbard of his sword had hung.
He should have known that one sworn to follow the sword would not understand. Only another craftsman could understand.
“A gift like Devlin’s does not die merely because his hand is maimed. The great works may be beyond him, but he seems to have enough control of that hand for ordinary tasks. And he can still teach others. It is time for him to give up this folly and to return home to his people.”
Two years ago, Murchadh had turned Devlin away, at the moment his friendship was needed most. This time he was determined not to fail his friend. He would save Devlin, even from himself.
Didrik’s gaze searched his face. “You do not know, do you?”
“I know my friend.”
Didrik’s hand dropped away from his belt, and the deadly tension in his frame drained away.
Murchadh released a breath he had not been aware of holding.
“Devlin swore an oath as Chosen One.”
“He swore an oath to his guild,” he countered.
Didrik shook his head. “The oath of Chosen One is for life. Devlin is bound to serve until his death, or until King Olafur releases him from service. He can more easily cut off his left hand than he could forswear that oath.”
The room grew suddenly chill, despite the blazing fire on the cooking hearth.
“Bound,” Murchadh repeated.
“Bound,” the soldier affirmed. “Bound by oath and by spell. He will be Chosen One until the day he meets his death.”
Spellbound? Such a thing was an abomination. From the sympathy on Didrik’s face, Murchadh knew his own horror was plain to see.
“My task is to keep him safe,” Didrik said. “And to do that, he must be focused on his duty. This journey is already hard enough, bringing back dark memories. If you are truly his friend, do not add to his burden.”
Devlin watched in silence, forgotten by the children as they persuaded Stephen to sing one song after another. When the minstrel’s throat tired, he was given a cup of honeyed tea, and pestered with questions about what it was like to live in what they fondly imagined to be the frozen northlands. Someone who was both a minstrel and a foreigner was far more interesting than the grim-faced man who had once been their father’s friend. No matter that he had once taught Declan how to roll a hoop, or that he and Cerrie had spent sleepless nights pacing the floor with their friends when Ailill had nearly died from the winter fever. All that was in the past. It had been more than four years since he had seen them, an eternity to a child.
Murchadh left the room, then a few moments later Didrik followed, no doubt visiting the necessary. When they returned, they brought a fresh pitcher of ale, and a plate of sweets the children shared with Stephen. He noticed they were careful not to get too close to Didrik, making sure that their mother or father was between them and the lieutenant at all times. And their caution was understandable, for Didrik was in uniform.
He took slow sips of the dark brown ale as he considered the tableau before him. There, on the one side, was his old life, represented by Murchadh and Alanna. Their friendship connected him to his past. He had stood witness at their wedding, and they had been honored guests on the day when Cerrie had finally claimed him as her own. And on the other side were Stephen and Didrik, who represented the new friendships he had made, and the new responsibilities he bore. Both sides seemed to find pleasure in each other’s company.
It was tempting to believe that his old life and his new could so easily be reconciled, but Devlin knew that for an illusion. Murchadh had set aside old grudges for the sake of past friendship, but he would never claim a Jorskian as friend. Nor would he understand the new claims that now held sway over Devlin’s loyalties.
Perhaps it was for the best that there was no opportunity for private conversation with Murchadh. With these others as witnesses, there was no danger that they would quarrel. Instead they would part on civil terms, and Devlin would be able to look back on this evening with pleasure.
It was late when Alanna finally declared it time for Declan to go to bed. His sisters Ailill and Suisan had already fallen asleep, lying stretched out on cushions before the fire. Alanna shook them both awake, then lifted Suisan in her arms. The children said yawning good nights to their guests and were led upstairs.
“When Alanna returns we must make our farewells. It is time for us to seek our own beds,” Devlin said.
“A word with you, if you please,” Murchadh said.
He glanced over at Didrik. Didrik nodded, then took Stephen by the arm and they exited th
e room, leaving Devlin and Murchadh alone.
“I had hoped we would have a chance to talk, to clear up past misunderstandings, but the evening slipped away from us. Will you come back on the morrow?”
Devlin shook his head. “No. We leave at dawn for Alvaren.”
“Surely you can spare a day. It will take you three weeks to get to Alvaren, and one more day will not matter.”
“My duty is to retrieve the sword without delay. With hard travel we can be in Alvaren in a fortnight, no more. Then we must return with all haste to Kingsholm.”
It would be full winter during their return journey, which would slow them down. But with luck they would be back in Kingsholm before spring, in time for the annual gathering of the court.
“Duty,” Murchadh repeated, his mouth twisted as if he tasted something bitter. “Is this part of what it means to be Chosen One?”
“Yes.” There was no need to elaborate. No need to tell him of the Geas that commanded Devlin’s obedience whether he willed it or nay. He did not want Murchadh’s sympathy.
“Why the sword? What is so important about it?”
He hesitated a moment, then decided Murchadh deserved the truth. “I tell you this in strictest confidence. The sword that Roric brought from Ynnis was not an ordinary sword. It was the sword of Saemund. The Chosen One, killed in the siege.”
The blood drained from Murchadh’s face and Devlin felt a grim flicker of satisfaction.
“In the name of the Seven, how? And why?”
“Those are the wrong questions. Ask rather why was I called to become Chosen One? What strange fate led me to Jorsk, the one man who could tell them how to retrieve their lost heirloom?”
“You cannot do this,” Murchadh declared. “Your parents’ nearkin were all killed in Ynnis, perhaps by the very sword you now seek. How can you even think of touching it? Let alone returning it to the land of our conquerors?”
“I have no choice. It is not just a sword, it is a symbol. Made for the first Chosen One by a son of Egil, or so they say. Without it I am simply a man who serves at the King’s whim. With the sword in my hand, none can deny my authority. I will be able to face down the royal court and lead the army in preparing to defend Jorsk against the attack that all know is coming.”
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