Murchadh was silent, as Devlin’s words put an end to any illusion that he was still the man who had been his friend. There was no room in Murchadh’s life for a man who was marked by the Gods for some fate even Devlin could not imagine.
“I have imposed upon your kindness long enough,” Devlin began.
“No.”
“No?”
Murchadh wiped one hand across his eyes, then shook his head as if to banish some dark thought. “You will not leave yet. Not until you have heard me out. Two years ago, I let my anger blind me, and when I had come to my senses you had disappeared. I will not wait another two years to have my say.”
Devlin braced himself for his friend’s anger.
“I do not understand what you have become. Nor do I know what it means that you are Chosen One. Though the lieutenant took me to task for my ignorance.”
He wondered what Didrik had told Murchadh.
“Your road has twisted since you left Alvaren and your forge behind. I have no wish to walk it, but I will not deny you your path. At heart, you are the same man you have always been. I put my trust and my friendship in that man. And I ask that you forgive an old friend for being too hasty in his judgment and too slow to understand.”
It took a moment for Murchadh’s words to sink in. Devlin took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in his chest ease.
“There is nothing to forgive,” Devlin said.
“I know that Agneta has cast you out, and what farkin you had left have denied you at her urging. But know now that you are not kinless. Alanna and I claimed you, on the day we learned of Cerrie’s and Cormack’s deaths.”
Devlin swallowed hard. “You cannot mean that.”
“I would not have said it elsewise. Come now, you stand second father to our children. How could we not claim you as kin?” Murchadh reached over and squeezed Devlin’s shoulder with his right hand. “Even in my anger, it was the anger of the elder brother to a younger brother who has gone off on his own path. We did not mean you to be alone.”
The temptation was dizzying. With a few sentences, Murchadh had restored to Devlin all he had lost before. For among their people, a man without kin was not a man at all. He was utterly cut off from all society. Thus the word for kinbereft was the same as for an exile, for one with no kin was forced to leave his homeland and become a rootless wanderer.
It was a truly generous act, and had Devlin known of this two years ago, he might never have left Duncaer. But two years had changed him greatly.
“Your kindness overwhelms me, but I cannot accept. Your kin might claim a farmer or a smith, but do you truly wish to call the General of the Royal Army your brother? To know that the garrisons in Duncaer go and stay at my command? Not to mention that my debts are no longer my own. My duty as Chosen One must come before kin ties.”
“The kinweb is strong enough to bear the burden.”
There were a dozen reasons, no, a hundred reasons why he should refuse. But instead Devlin found himself saying “Then I accept. And I pledge that I will do my best to protect our kin, and bring honor to our name.”
Eleven
THE NEXT DAY THEY LEFT KILBARAN BEFORE THE sun had even risen. The two soldiers at the southern gate eyed the three travelers curiously, then turned to Devlin and gave him the formal hand over heart salute due a senior officer.
“Lord General,” the corporal said.
Devlin glanced around, and was grateful to see that there were none of his own folk close enough to witness this folly. He had accepted his role as Chosen One, but the title of General was still new enough to make him uneasy. Especially here, where the Royal Army played the role of conqueror.
Devlin inclined his head, in acknowledgment of the salute. “Corporal. My respects to your commander, and inform him that I will see him upon my return.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal replied. He gestured, and the second soldier swung open the outer gate.
Devlin was the first to ride through the gate, eager to resume the journey. Seeing his friends had stirred up old feelings within him. It had been hard to be faced with living reminders of what he had once been, and all he had lost. Such regrets had no place in his life, and so he was eager to focus instead on the task before him.
The road from Kilbaran to Alvaren was well maintained, with inns spaced at regular intervals to serve the needs of Jorskian travelers. Caerfolk would never stay at an inn, relying instead upon the elaborate web of hospitality owed to kin and craft brothers. With the blessing of Murchadh’s name, Devlin could have claimed guest right for himself and his friends, but such favor was not to be squandered lightly, so instead they stayed at Jorskian inns, where hospitality could be bought with coin.
The innkeepers were glad enough to welcome them. Winter travelers were rare, so much so that the government paid an allowance to the innkeepers in order to ensure the inns stayed open year-round. And travelers brought news from home, which was nearly as welcome as the coins that supplemented the winter allowance.
Best of all, the innkeepers knew enough to respect his privacy. They asked no questions, and unlike in Jorsk, their stays were not disturbed by curiosity seekers come to see the legendary Chosen One.
As they journeyed into the mountains, the steep terrain took its toll on both men and horses. Fortunately, the weather turned fair, and Devlin set a pace that was swift but not brutal. Unlike his other journeys, the Geas did not urge him to reckless haste. Instead, for the most part, it left him alone—though sometimes he heard its voice whispering in his mind like the distant hum of far-off conversation. He felt it as much as heard it, often at the end of a hard day’s travel when they had journeyed till they were nearly asleep in their saddles. And once he had woken in the still hours of the night to hear the same hum of voices. But he could never make out the words, nor was there any sense of compulsion, as there had been before.
He wondered if the power of the Geas grew weaker the farther he journeyed from Kingsholm. Perhaps if he journeyed far enough, he would be free from its influence altogether. But such a thought was perilously close to oath breaking, and he banished it from his mind.
On the ninth day after leaving Kilbaran they arrived at the village of Bengore, just after dusk. The inn was easy to spot, for as was the custom, it was set on the northern edge of the village, separated from its neighbors to the south by a rocky field.
The stableboy was nowhere to be found. The lone occupant, an elderly mare, snorted her disapproval as they proceeded to untack their horses and rub them down. Stephen pitched clean straw into three empty stalls, while Didrik pumped fresh water into the buckets, and Devlin filled their mangers with grain from the feed room. After settling the horses in the stalls, they picked up their saddlebags and made their way to the inn proper.
The windows were ablaze with light, and the door swung open at their touch. As they entered, they found themselves in a large open room, with a half-dozen trestle tables on each side and twin hearths that burned brightly. In the back of the room was a hallway.
“Glad tidings and welcome to you,” a disembodied voice called.
Devlin heard slow steps and a scraping sound, as if someone was dragging a heavy load. A man stepped from the hallway. As he came toward them, Devlin could see that the man’s left leg was crippled, for it dragged behind him with each step.
“I apologize for not being here to greet you, but with the hour so late, I did not expect any guests to arrive. Not on Midwinter’s Eve. Do you have a carriage or horses that need stabling? My daughter Edyth usually takes care of that, but she is in the kitchen now, helping with the feast.”
“We have already seen to our own horses,” Didrik said. He normally took the lead in dealings with the innkeepers, since most responded better to a fellow countryman. “But we’ll need a pair of rooms for the night, and a hot meal, if you can manage.”
The innkeeper drew himself up to his full height. “We can manage better than a mere meal. You must join my family for the winter
feast. It will be our pleasure to have guests on this evening—a touch of home as it were. The heathens here are a dour lot, and have no sense that tonight is one to make merry.”
Didrik coughed, and Stephen shuffled his feet.
Devlin came forward and threw back the hood of his cloak, revealing his features.
The innkeeper’s face paled. “Sir, I meant no disrespect, of course,” he said. “I did not know—”
“No matter,” Devlin said. “I am sure my friends will be glad to join you and your family at their revels. As for me, I have no taste for such things and will retire early.”
He had his own plans for this night and they did not include a celebration. But he would not begrudge Stephen and Didrik their fun.
In a short time they were settled in their rooms, Devlin in one large chamber, Didrik and Stephen sharing the room across the hall. The innkeeper’s daughter Edyth had brought hot water for washing up and Didrik had seemed quite taken with her.
The innkeeper, who bore the name Wendell, personally brought up a dinner tray to Devlin’s room. The food was excellent, but Devlin ate only sparingly and soon pushed the tray aside.
There was a knock at his door.
“Enter,” he called.
The door swung open, and Didrik came inside, followed by Stephen. Both had exchanged their dusty travel clothes for cleaner garb.
“Will you not join us? Midwinter’s Eve is best spent with friends, and our hosts would be honored at your presence.”
Devlin shook his head. “I have no mood for merry-making. And this is your holiday, not mine. I will be well content on my own.”
“I do not feel right leaving you here alone,” Didrik said.
“I do not need a nursemaid. Go, enjoy your holiday, and smile at Edyth’s sallies. Just be careful how much you drink, for, aching heads or no, we leave tomorrow at first light.”
Didrik grinned. “It will be as you command.”
“Will you stay indoors tonight? Or do you plan on marking the Day of Remembrance?” Stephen asked.
This was not the first time Stephen had surprised him with his knowledge of Caer customs. Stephen had known little of the Caerfolk when they first met, but since then he had apparently studied the matter at some length, even taking time to learn the language. Whatever scrolls he had consulted had apparently included a discussion of Caer beliefs, though strangely they had omitted the fundamental truths that were taught in childhood, such as the sacred obligation of hospitality and the ties between women and the land.
Devlin knew he should be flattered but instead he felt vaguely uneasy. He did not like being understood so well.
“I will mark this night,” he said, conscious of Didrik’s curious stare.
“Then may I join you? I would keep vigil, as a friend.”
He hesitated. A part of him wondered at the reason for Stephen’s request. Was he asking as a friend? Or was he asking as a minstrel, as one ever curious for bits of arcane lore that could be added to the legend of the Chosen One?
The silence stretched between them, until it grew uncomfortable. Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but Devlin forestalled him. “At moonrise. If you wish, you may join me then.”
Stephen watched, his eyes bright with curiosity, as Devlin placed the copper bowl on the ground before him. The firelight flickered over the hammered metal surface, glinting it with gold. He shivered a bit, for the ground was cold underneath him.
“Haakon, Lord of the Sunset Realm, I, Devlin, son of Kameron and Talaith, now called Devlin the Chosen One, greet my dead. May the burdens they carry be lighter for my remembrance.”
He took the dagger from his belt and pricked the thumb of his left hand, holding it over the bowl and squeezing until several drops had fallen.
Then he replaced the dagger on his belt and picked up the flask of distilled meadowsweet. Uncorking the flask, he poured a small measure into the bowl, watching as the blood turned the clear liquid red. Then he took a healthy swig for himself.
He extended the flask to Stephen, who sat on his right side. “Drink,” he urged.
“Is this part of the ritual?” Stephen asked.
“No. But it is cold tonight, and a drink will warm your blood.”
Stephen nodded and took a long draught. He had yet to develop a taste for the sharp liquor but he swallowed manfully before handing the flask back to Devlin.
“What happens now?” Stephen asked, his voice roughened by the whiskey.
Devlin shrugged. “Now we wait.”
He would not voice his hopes aloud. They were so fragile that to speak them might destroy them. Instead, he turned his gaze from the fire to their surrounds. The waning moon provided only enough light to see the vague outline of shapes. Behind them, the rock wall that separated this field from the inn provided shelter for their backs. A short distance to his left, a pair of young oak trees raised slender branches to the sky. And in the distance, he saw the glow of a bonfire, where the villagers held their own ritual.
Devlin could have joined them, but had chosen not to disrupt their remembrances with his controversial presence. At least he had Stephen to bear him company this year, reminding him that he now had friends and craft to sustain him.
And this year’s vigil was quite different from last year’s. Then he had performed the full ritual, pledging the soul price for his murdered family. This year he had neither kin nor friends to ease on their final journey. Instead he came merely to pay his respects, and to listen to whatever wisdom the dead might choose to share.
They sat in silence as the moon rose above them. Stephen kept a careful eye on the fire, and from time to time they took sips of meadowsweet from the flask.
Devlin gazed into the flames, lost in reverie, as one by one he silently recalled each of his dead. Once that count had included family and treasured friends, but now he added enemies to their number. Soon after becoming Chosen One he had learned what it was to kill in cold blood, to order the execution of those whose crimes deserved the ultimate punishment.
More than one soul had met their end at Devlin’s hand, and his soul already bore the burden of these killings—justified though they may have been. And if Jorsk did go to war, he would bear the burden of many more deaths as he led the army against the enemy.
A gasp from Stephen brought him back to the present.
“Look,” Stephen said, his arm pointing to the distant field.
Devlin raised his eyes from the fire and blinked as he peered into the darkness. A silver mist drifted toward them. As the mist drew closer, it solidified until he could no longer see through it.
Devlin rose to his feet, and Stephen did the same. The mist paused on the far side of the fire, and then a woman stepped out. She was tall, taller than Devlin, with dark curly hair cropped close to her head, and green eyes that held a spark of mischief. She wore dark green leggings and a matching tunic. A sword hung from her waist, and around her left arm was an engraved copper armband.
Devlin drank in the sight of her, joy and grief mixing within him as he realized that he had forgotten just how beautiful she had been. For a moment, time stood still. Then a branch shifted on the fire, sending sparks into the sky, and the spell was broken.
“Honored husband,” the apparition said.
“Beloved wife,” he replied.
Stephen made some exclamation, but all of Devlin’s attention was focused on Cerrie. The fire was between them, so he took several steps around it, only to stop as Cerrie mirrored his movements.
“Gentle Heart,” Cerrie said. “You have changed, but still I would know you anywhere.”
He swallowed against a throat gone tight with emotion. “Would you?”
“I never thought to see you a soldier, but you have done well. But there is a different kind of danger around you now, and I begged Lord Haakon to let me journey here, to warn you of your peril.”
“Haakon,” Devlin said, the name bitter in his mouth. “The Gods have already meddled enough in our
lives. And now he sends you to do their bidding?”
Cerrie stretched one hand across the fire. “Listen to me, for there is very little time. There is danger, from where you least suspect,” she said.
To be Chosen One was to live with danger every day. He had become accustomed to it. And yet Cerrie’s urgency infected him with a sense of unease. She had never been one to worry over trifles.
“What kind of danger? From whom?”
She shrugged. “I can see the shape of the peril but not its creator.”
“How dare Haakon use you in this way? Is he trying to torment us both?” Devlin was furious. The ceremonies of remembrance were supposed to ease the dead into the next life. Instead Cerrie’s hard-won peace had been disturbed. She had been gifted with a glimpse of Devlin’s peril, then denied the chance to offer him the knowledge that might help him defeat it. And he knew full well how it felt to be helpless, unable to save a loved one.
It was monstrous to think that she could be used in such a way. It only confirmed his belief that the Lord of the Dread Realm had purposely chosen to torment Devlin. At first he had withheld death, refusing to take Devlin’s soul when every fiber of Devlin’s being craved release. Now that Devlin had once again found the will to live, Haakon discovered a new way to ensure his misery, condemning him to a hell on earth.
“Tell Haakon I will not be his pawn,” Devlin declared. “And when the day comes that he finally decides to face me, I will demand a reckoning.”
Cerrie had died because of him. She, Lyssa, Cormack, and Bevan. All killed because the Gods had decreed that he would be the Chosen One and would return the lost sword to Jorsk. The familiar anger and guilt rose up within him. He could feel it pounding in his veins, and a dark haze clouded his vision.
He shook his head and blinked as Cerrie’s ghostly form dissolved and a new figure stood in her place. The figure wore a dark cloak, the hood pulled over his head. His features were obscured, and there were two glowing points of light instead of eyes. In his right hand the figure held a staff that glowed silver.
Devlin's Honor Page 12
