“Long have I waited for the chance to speak with you.” The voice was soft but low, with a rumbling underneath, as if a stone had decided to speak.
This was Haakon himself, the Lord of the Dread Realm. Devlin had felt his presence before, when illness or injury brought him to the brink of death. But each time Haakon had refused to take him.
“I am not afraid of you,” Devlin lied. He did not fear death, but there were other torments that Haakon could inflict. He could well deny Devlin’s spirit entrance to the Sunset Realm, forcing him to wander endlessly in the twilight realms, forever cut off from the spirits of those he had known and loved. Condemned to an eternity spent alone in darkness.
Haakon laughed, and despite his brave words Devlin felt a chill run up his spine. “If you knew me, you would fear me. Soon your soul will be mine.”
“Why now?” This made no sense. If fate had decreed that Devlin was to die, then why would Haakon allow Cerrie to warn him of his peril?
“Because I wish it,” Haakon said. He took one step forward, then another, and the flames parted around him, for they had no power to touch him. Haakon came to stand directly before Devlin.
Devlin took half a step backward before he could stop himself. But he could not outrun a God, nor would he give Haakon the satisfaction of seeing his fear.
Haakon stretched out his hand and placed it on Devlin’s head. “You will be mine,” he whispered.
Burning pain filled him, and to his horror he heard Haakon’s words repeated, this time within his own mind. “You will be mine.”
Devlin could not move, could not even scream—a prisoner in his own body as the fire consumed him from within. “I do not belong to you. I am Devlin, Devlin of Duncaer,” he chanted, holding on to the shards of his identity. Cerrie’s face rose before him, shouting a warning. And then the blackness overwhelmed him, and he knew no more.
Twelve
THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN CAST A PITILESS LIGHT over Kingsholm, though few people were awake to witness the start of this New Year. Most revelers had long ago sought their beds, or staggered off in a drunken stupor to sleep where they fell. Only those with urgent duties were still awake and sober at this hour.
Captain Drakken was one. As was her custom, she had taken personal command of the Guard last night, supervising those whose job it was to ensure that the holiday revelries remained peaceful. There had been the usual troubles last night. A band of drunken youths had been discovered smashing windows in the merchants’ quarter. They were taken into custody until their parents could pay their fines. The guard had been summoned to break up a handful of tavern brawls, though there were no serious injuries. And patrols had found at least a dozen fools passed out drunk in the streets. All but one had been rescued before they had frozen to death.
Compared to the celebrations of past years, it had been a quiet night, in part because few truly felt like celebrating, given the uncertain state of the Kingdom. And in part because of the extra patrols she had ordered, and the vigilance of her guards. She had already thanked the guards who had taken last night’s watch and dismissed them to seek their beds. She, too, would welcome sleep, but she had one thing more to do.
She paused on the steps that led into the Royal Chapel, knocking her boots against the stone to dislodge the snow that clung to them. Then she climbed the half dozen steps and pushed open the door.
Sunlight streamed through the skylights, illuminating the stone altar. In contrast the rest of the temple was dim, for only one in four of the oil lamps that ringed the walls had been lit. Brother Arni was nowhere to be seen. Presumably he had gone to his own bed after performing the midnight observances. She wondered if he had found any faithful to lead in prayer, or if once again he had prayed alone.
As she drew even with the altar, she bowed respectfully and gave it a wide berth. To the left of the altar was an alcove, and she paused in front of the map wall. Here a delicately crafted stone mosaic depicted the entire Kingdom in intricate detail. Provinces, cities, rivers, roads, all laid out with astonishing accuracy.
One stone differed from the rest, for it protruded from the map, glowing with a ruby light. Her fingers hovered over the soul stone, though she knew better than to touch it. She knelt and looked at the stone, which was in the far southwestern corner of the map. This section was not as well marked as the central provinces, but she could see that the stone was on the road that led from Kilbaran to Alvaren.
For a moment the red light within the stone seemed to fade. Her heart froze and she blinked her eyes. When she opened them the light again shone with a steady glow. Captain Drakken sighed with relief. Her eyes had been playing tricks on her. Too little sleep could do that, even to the Captain of the Guard.
Devlin was safe, and making steady progress in his quest. He would reach Alvaren in a few days. And then, if the Gods were kind, he would find the sword and begin his journey back to Kingsholm.
With luck, he would be back before the spring solstice, ready to take his place on the King’s Council at the official opening of the court. Not that politics were in abeyance for the winter. On the contrary, this winter a greater number of courtiers and nobles than usual had chosen to winter in Kingsholm, rather than returning to their own provinces. And while the court was not in session, there was nothing to prevent them from gathering informally, furthering their own schemes.
The wind was shifting. Alliances were being formed, and even she could see that Devlin’s allies were being shut out. Border nobles such as Lord Rikard and Lady Vendela were invited to fewer and fewer social occasions. In response the progressives held their own parties, and when they could not find enough nobles to fill their guest lists, they began turning to the wealthy merchants to fill the empty seats at their tables. This tactic outraged the conservative courtiers, who held that merchants had no business interfering in the Kingdom’s politics.
And she herself was being closely watched, since the day when she had confronted the King and demanded that he allow her to search for whoever had set the assassins on Devlin’s trail. So far her private inquiries had turned up no clue as to the identities of the four swordsmen, much to her frustration. A public search with the full weight of the Guard behind it might well have succeeded where she had failed.
But she had to be careful these days. As Captain of the Guard, her position demanded neutrality. She might urge the King’s Council to authorize additional guards, or to strengthen their defenses, but she could not openly back one faction of the court against another. Not if she hoped to retain her post.
Six months ago her position had been secure. She had earned it on her own merits and proven herself worthy of trust through years of faithful service to the King. But then she had backed Devlin in his challenge against Duke Gerhard.
It had been the right thing to do. Gerhard had been exposed as a traitor, who threatened her kingdom and the King she had vowed to protect. King Olafur had rewarded Devlin for his service, naming him King’s councilor and General of the Army. And her own position had seemed untouchable, backed by Devlin’s patronage.
But these days the Chosen One’s name held little power. Even those who were favorably inclined toward his policies had been dismayed by Devlin’s abandoning Kingsholm to quest after the lost sword. Should Devlin return swiftly in triumph, all would be forgiven. But if not …
“I hoped I would find you here,” Lord Rikard’s voice interrupted her solitary musings.
Captain Drakken rose to her feet and turned. Underneath his fur cloak, she could see the hint of silken robes, which meant the Thane of Myrka had come here directly from the evening’s festivities.
It was no longer safe for them to be seen together in public. Lord Rikard was too closely associated with Devlin’s policies. Should the King’s Council be called into session, Rikard had been appointed to take the seat that Devlin would normally occupy.
She could not consult with him openly, but in casual conversation with Solveig of Esker, she had let fall
the news that she visited the Royal Chapel each morning at dawn. It was a custom she had begun not out of an excess of piety, but rather so she could keep watch over Devlin’s travels.
It was foolish, she knew. Though the soul stone would reveal if Devlin were in trouble, there was nothing that could be done from here. Any help she could send would reach him far too late. Still, it was comforting to watch his steady progress and to know that he was yet unharmed.
Besides, her visits to the Royal Temple served another purpose. Brother Arni was discreet, and few others ventured here. Especially not at dawn, when most courtiers were asleep. It was a perfect place for a seemingly casual encounter.
“Has he found the sword?” Lord Rikard asked.
“No, for he continues to journey deeper into Duncaer, toward Alvaren.”
“I was hoping that by now—”
“There is time,” she said. “The spring council does not begin for three months. He will return by then.”
Rikard peered at the map. “Duncaer is larger than I thought. How can he hope to find a single sword in that wild place?”
“The Chosen One is resourceful. He has triumphed against far greater odds. You must do your part and trust that he will be successful.”
“Of course,” Lord Rikard said, but his brow was furrowed in doubt.
She could not blame his misgivings. Devlin had not told Lord Rikard the full truth of the quest for the sword. He trusted Lord Rikard’s motives, but the young thane had a hot temper and in the heat of debate might well blurt out what ought to be kept hidden. Thus Rikard, along with the rest of Devlin’s friends and supporters, had nothing to rely upon but their faith in the Chosen One. And their belief in his destiny.
Captain Drakken bit back a yawn, rubbing the sleep from her tired eyes as her body reminded her that she had seen more than forty winters and it was past time that she sought her bed.
“You wished to speak with me?” she prompted.
“Were you at the royal celebrations last night?” Rikard asked.
“I made a courtesy visit, but did not stay. I saw that you had been placed at the King’s own table.”
Eighteen courtiers had been chosen to dine with the King and Princess Ragenilda. It was a rare mark of favor that Rikard had been chosen to join their ranks.
“The King was civil, but I suspect the invitation had more to do with my palate than my politics.”
“I beg your pardon?” He was talking in riddles, and she was too tired to play these games.
“After the feast, I mingled with the other guests during the entertainment. Several of them complained that the wine they had been served was inferior. I took a cup for myself, and found they were right. The King’s table was served the Myrkan reserve from five summers ago. A good year. But the rest of the guests had an inferior wine from Grimstadt.”
“So they did not like the wine. That is hardly news to keep us from our beds.”
She liked wine, but would hardly call herself a connoisseur. She drank red Myrkan wine by preference, though ordinary vintages, not the reserve that was meant for the King’s court. Still, she did not see what difference it made if the wine had come from Grimstadt. They, too, made good wines—though as Thane of Myrka, Lord Rikard would no doubt disagree.
“Every year, Myrka sends a shipment of its best wines to Kingsholm, as part of our taxes. These shipments are sent by sea to the port of Bezek, and then brought upriver to Kingsholm. Shipping the wine by the water route preserves the flavor and ensures that only the best reaches the King’s table.”
She hazarded a guess. “The wines from Grimstadt come by land?”
“Precisely,” Lord Rikard said.
“I still do not see why this matters. Perhaps they simply ran out of Myrkan wine and had to make do with the other instead. Such things happen.”
“They shouldn’t,” Lord Rikard said. His features were grave, telling her that there was far more at stake than the Royal Steward’s choice of wine to serve at a banquet. “I questioned the servers, and they insisted that the wine was from Myrka. But it wasn’t. Which means the royal cellars are running empty.”
“There are far more courtiers in Kingsholm this winter than in the past. That may have strained the King’s resources. And his cellars.”
“Or is it because the last three shipments of wine never arrived? The pirates have taken a far greater toll on our shipping than most realize. And it is not just Myrkan wine that the King is running short of. Ships carrying taxes from the other coastal provinces have also been attacked, their gold and goods seized. If matters do not improve, soon the King will have to borrow from the moneylenders in order to pay the army.”
“It may not come to that. We still have the taxes from the interior provinces,” Drakken said.
“And it is no coincidence that those are the provinces who have the King’s ear these days,” Lord Rikard replied.
“So what will you do?”
“Watch and see if other shortages are being reported. I ask that you do the same. Try to find out if the merchants are hoarding goods.”
“I appreciate your warning.”
Kingsholm had experienced shortages before, when poor weather led to crop failures. She still had scars to show from the sugar riots, when angry mobs had attacked those merchants they suspected of hoarding sugar to drive up the prices. She hoped fervently that matters were not as bad as Lord Rikard feared. Jorsk needed to prepare itself for war, and defend itself against outside threats. Civil unrest would simply play into their enemies’ hands.
“I will leave you to seek your well-earned rest,” Lord Rikard said. “I bid you fair greetings and wishes that this year brings peace and prosperity to you.”
“May it bring peace and prosperity to us all,” she replied, giving the ritual answer, though she knew neither was likely. Not unless the Chosen One returned swiftly, to save the Kingdom before it dissolved into utter chaos.
Lord Rikard’s words had planted the seed of doubt, and it was not long before Captain Drakken was able to confirm at least some of what he feared. Under the guise of a surprise inspection, she had visited the King’s treasury and noticed that while the shelves were filled with the requisite number of locked chests, more than a few of them sounded distressingly hollow when tapped. The King’s storerooms, too, were emptier than one would expect given that it was only midwinter.
In the marketplace, the wine sellers complained that Myrkan wine was in short supply, but blamed the shortage on the courtiers who had decided to winter in the city. No other shortages were reported, and prices remained steady, easing her fears of riots. But spring was still months away, and much could happen in that time.
It was with mixed emotions that she sought out Solveig, to see what she knew of the matter. Like Lord Rikard, Solveig was closely associated with Devlin’s supporters. But she had an advantage in that her grand-mother had been from Selvarat, and the family still had ties to that empire. She had sources of information that others did not.
A few days after she had met with Lord Rikard, Captain Drakken went to the old wing of the palace and began speaking to courtiers there about several instances of petty thievery that had recently occurred. Most claimed no knowledge of any thefts, but two of them were more than happy to provide a detailed list of all they had lost. Which was interesting, since to her knowledge there was no thief operating in the palace. This was merely a pretext, allowing her to move freely among the nobles. Still, she dutifully recorded all that was said, and after two hours of such conversations, she arrived at the apartments assigned to Solveig.
She rapped on the door, and as Solveig opened it, Captain Drakken repeated her rehearsed speech. “My apologies for disturbing you. I am investigating reports that a thief has broken into several chambers in this wing and taken small objects of value. Have you missed anything recently? Or seen someone lurking about who should not be here?”
“Not that I have noticed, but I do not count my jewelry daily,” Solveig
replied. “If you would come in, I would be pleased to check and see if anything is missing.”
“That would be helpful,” Captain Drakken said.
She entered, and Solveig swung the door shut behind them.
“Should I assume there is no thief?” Solveig asked.
Captain Drakken smiled. “Not that I know of, though Lady Vendela believes that she lost an emerald brooch, and Councilor Arnulf is certain that he lost a jade chess set, along with a pair of jeweled drinking cups.”
“The chess set I am not sure of, but I’d heard he lost the drinking cups while gambling with his cronies.”
Falsely reporting a crime was a grave offense, but even if Captain Drakken could find proof that the cups had been gambled away and not stolen, Councilor Arnulf could simply claim that he had made a mistake, having been too drunk to remember the wager.
“No doubt he hopes the King will recompense him for his losses,” Solveig added.
“Then he has not seen the state of the King’s treasury recently,” Captain Drakken replied.
“I see you have spoken with Lord Rikard.”
“Yes. And I have inspected the treasury room myself. The full complement of chests is there, but more than half of them are empty. As for the rest, I could not tell if they contain gold, silver, or mere brass.”
She fervently hoped that the remaining chests held gold, or silver latts at the very least. But there was no way to be certain, for the Royal Treasurer reported directly to the King. The King’s Council could demand a full accounting, if it were in session. But it would not meet until the spring.
“There is one bit of good news. Devlin has nearly reached Alvaren. With luck it will not be long before he reclaims the sword,” Captain Drakken said.
“The journey back will be more difficult,” Solveig said. “Once it is known he is returning, his enemies may seek to prevent him from reaching Kingsholm.”
Devlin's Honor Page 13
