Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  “It is possible,” Drakken admitted. “If we knew the roads he was to travel, we could send an escort.”

  But as long as they did not know which roads Devlin would take, neither did his enemies. And there were advantages to being a small, swiftly moving party.

  “Devlin must return bearing the sword. Nothing less will sway the mood of the court. Only he can persuade the King and council to shore up the border defenses and release the army from its interior garrisons,” Captain Drakken said.

  “Then you think there will be war. Sooner, rather than later.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Up until now, our enemy has remained unseen, content to stir up troubles along the borders and try to weaken us from within,” Solveig said.

  “True. Even the failed invasion of Korinth was more a feint than a true attempt,” Captain Drakken agreed.

  “Then why attack now?”

  “Because the King named Devlin as the General of the Army. Already, they have seen Devlin act to strengthen our defenses, dispatching Major Mikkelson to guard the northern coast and sending armsmen from the interior provinces to the Nerikaat border. When Devlin returns, he will continue his work, and the Kingdom will grow stronger. Thus the moment to strike is now, before Devlin has a chance to build up the border defenses. If our enemy is planning an invasion, then they will attack this spring. Of that I am certain.”

  And if Devlin did not return, command of the army would be left in the hands of the newly named Marshal Erild Olvarrson. The Marshal would do whatever the King and council advised. Which, in the case of war, might well lead to disaster.

  “You know that Count Magaharan remained in Kingsholm after the court adjourned,” Solveig said. “He said he enjoys the informality that exists when the court is not in session, and I had several private dinners with him.”

  Indeed, many had been surprised that the Selvarat ambassador had chosen to linger in Jorsk, rather than returning to his own country for consultation with his emperor. Still, there had been a constant stream of messengers going back and forth, and no doubt the Count was well versed on what was happening in his homeland.

  “Before he left the Count gave me assurances that Selvarat intends to honor their treaty with us. In the spring, they will send an emissary to the King with a formal offer of troops, to help defend our borders against attack. If war comes, we will not stand alone.”

  This was good news indeed. Over a hundred years ago, Selvarat and Jorsk had ended their long-standing hostilities and signed a treaty promising mutual assistance against third parties. Till now, the treaty terms had never been invoked—though there were many who grumbled that at the very least Selvarat ought to take action against Nerikaat, to punish it for its incursions against Jorsk.

  “Did he inform the King?”

  “He told me this in strict confidence. I believe he has hinted as much to the King as well, but there will be no public discussion until he returns with the formal offer.”

  Such were the games of diplomacy, where hints and innuendo were substituted for honest discussion. And none were better masters of the game than those of Selvarat, whose own courtly intrigues made the schemes of the Jorskian court seem mere child’s play.

  Now they had two reasons to hope for the coming of spring. Devlin’s return, and the promise of well-trained troops to help defend their borders.

  All she had to do was ensure that the city remained peaceful until that help arrived.

  Thirteen

  THE HAMLET HAD BURNED DAYS AGO, BUT THE scent of smoke lingered in the air and tasted bitter upon the tongue. Devlin swallowed hard as he stood on what had been the threshold of the largest of the four cottages. His eyes picked out a chunk of roof timber and piles of burned thatch, but the rest of the debris was unrecognizable. Even the stone walls were scorched.

  It had been only three days since they had left Bengore. Three days since the Day of Remembrance, where Devlin had faced his own worst nightmare. Yet nothing could have prepared him for what he found here. For even as Haakon had been tormenting Devlin, the last of these folks had been burned alive.

  “Have you seen enough?” Niamh asked. She had been the one to meet them when they entered the hamlet, and though she had tried to dissuade him, he had insisted on seeing the destruction for himself.

  “The fire was deliberately set. It destroyed everything, as they meant it to,” he observed. A part of him was amazed at how calm his voice sounded, for inside he felt like screaming.

  “There were two bodies found in here, near the door, which had been barricaded shut, but as for their babe, we found no sign. Perhaps her body is elsewhere, or it may have been consumed utterly in the fire,” Niamh replied.

  He wondered how old the child had been and whether she had any inkling as to what was happening. Surely her parents would have tried to save her, and yet the fire had been set from the inside… .

  And this was but one of the litany of horrors that Niamh had recounted, in her flat nasal tones. Stephen had turned white as she began the tale, and he had not protested when Devlin suggested that Stephen wait with the horses. Didrik, who had seen his own share of horrors while serving with the Guard, had listened impassively to Niamh’s tale, then gone to the field where her husband was erecting cairns over the bodies. Ostensibly he was there to lend assistance, but also to find out if the husband’s story was the same as the one that Niamh had recounted.

  Devlin felt the need to see the ruins with his own eyes, and so he had insisted that Niamh take him through the hamlet and show him the ruins. Now he wished he had been content with mere words, for he knew the image of the missing babe and the burned-out shell of the cottage would haunt his nights.

  “What of the others?” Devlin asked, gesturing to the remaining cottages.

  “We searched them as well, but they were empty when they burned. Perhaps it was the madness, or perhaps one of those not yet sick thought to purge the infection.”

  “Tell me again what happened.” He turned on his heel and began to walk away from the burned cottage, wishing he could put the memory behind him as easily.

  Niamh fell into step beside him, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders, as if to protect herself from more than the chill of day.

  “My husband Duald is kin to those who live here. Lived here,” she corrected herself. “It is scarcely the time of year for visiting, but two days ago he got it in his head to look in on his father’s brother. Felt that there was something wrong, so he walked across the mountain. But he arrived to find them already dead.”

  “All of them?”

  “From Gavin the ancient down to the littlest babe. All dead, some for days.”

  So she had told him before, but he still could not quite believe it. Yet the large patch of freshly turned earth at the eastern end of the hamlet was all too convincing. If this woman was to be believed, under the covering of dirt and stones was a mass grave containing the remains of more than two dozen folk.

  “When Duald did not return by nightfall, I knew something was wrong, and so the next day my brother and I came after him. Duald had searched for survivors but there were none to be found. It took nearly a full day for us to gather up the dead and bury them properly.”

  “And you think this was grain madness?”

  “What else could it be? One man was hacked into a dozen pieces, while others had their bellies slashed open. Two sisters were found hanging in the barn, their dead children at their feet. Some folk were found naked and frozen to death on the road, having torn off all their clothes. Those are the acts of folk gone mad.”

  He was forced to agree with her. Duncaer was not like Jorsk. Its folk had no need to fear either bandits or foreign raiders. Whatever had harmed these people had come from within.

  “There have been outbreaks of the grain madness before,” he said. “But never have I heard of everyone being killed.”

  Niamh’s gaze turned inward. “I assure you, it can be nothing else. These we
re good people. They did not deserve to die in this way,” she said.

  If this had been a larger village or a town, then the signs of the madness might have been recognized sooner. Those still uninfected could have taken steps to isolate the sick and prevent them from coming to harm. But in such a small place, if even a quarter of them fell ill at the same time, it must have spelled doom for the rest of them.

  Many of those who had died had been children. They must have been terrified as the adults around them went mad and began killing one another. He could only hope that the children had not been made to witness the worst of the horrors.

  “Are there other places in this district where the grain madness has struck?”

  “Do you take us for fools?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn. “If we had heard aught of this, we would have burned the cursed grain ourselves before letting a single mouthful pass our lips. My brother has already left to warn the other villages in this area.”

  “My apologies. I did not mean to offend you,” he said. It had been a foolish question. No one would eat grain that they knew might be tainted.

  Rye grain came from the stolen lands, now farmed by those of Jorsk. Two generations ago rye had been unknown in Duncaer, but now the cheap grain was a staple of the winter diet. Yet the grain was both a blessing and a curse. It was less expensive than golden wheat, but from time to time it would spoil, and grain sickness was the result. Few of those infected with such madness had ever recovered. And those who had lived through the experience often killed themselves later, unable to live with the memories of the horrors they had committed.

  It had been more than a dozen years since the last outbreak of grain sickness. Now it had returned, and with winter fast approaching, this hamlet was just the first of many that would suffer.

  “Who else bought grain from the same trader as these folk?” he asked.

  “Each year the folk from roundabouts send two of our own into Alvaren, to trade fleece for grain and other necessities. My people live across the valley, and then there are the folk to the south who live by the creek.”

  The taint might have been confined to this village’s share, but it was a chance that they could not afford to take.

  “You will have to burn your grain. And get me the name of the trader who sold it to you, so I can send warning to his other customers.”

  “We do not need you to tell us what to do,” Niamh said. “We can take care of our own.”

  “Of course,” he said, and he felt his cheeks heat with a blush. He had given orders instinctively, as he would in Jorsk, where folk great and small looked to the Chosen One to lead them.

  In Duncaer kin took care of each other in good times and in bad, but surely this was the worst of all possible circumstances. Devlin could hardly bring himself to think about the horrors that had occurred here, and these folk were strangers to him. It must have been unbearable for those who called them kin.

  Yet bear with it they had, honoring the dead as best they could, and still taking time to warn others of their peril. And if Niamh and Duald resented the strangers who had interrupted their grieving, who could blame them? Indeed, he was lucky to have found someone here who could tell him the tale, Niamh and her husband having stayed behind to finish piling stones on the graves, while others herded the abandoned sheep down the valley.

  “Your kin are your own concern, but the trader is mine. Give me his name, and I will see to it that no one else suffers this same fate.”

  Niamh nodded.

  “And one more thing.” Devlin pulled his coin pouch from his belt and held it out to her.

  Niamh took a step back, refusal written in the stiff lines of her body.

  He tossed the pouch so it landed at her feet with a jingling clang.

  “The winter has only just begun. You will need new grain to replace what you have lost. Take the coins. This time buy golden wheat, to ease your stomachs and your hearts.” “You can keep your Jorksian coins. We do not need the charity of strangers.”

  Her stubbornness reminded him of himself. But there was more at stake than mere pride. The shepherds who lived in these isolated valleys used their land for grazing sheep, not growing grain. They depended on the sale of the fleece to buy provisions for themselves. Now they had neither fleece to sell, nor grain that they could trust. At best they would be forced to sell their sheep, which would deprive them of their livelihoods.

  “I speak as Devlin, brother to Alanna the weaver. Alanna has three fair children of her own, and would not want to see your children go hungry. In her name, take the coins.”

  “I do not know this Alanna—” Niamh said.

  “You can find her kin in Alvaren, when you go to buy the wheat. Give your thanks to them, for the gift made in the name of her children.”

  Niamh glanced down at the coin pouch, while Devlin held his breath. If she still refused the coin, then he would have to find some other way to help them. Perhaps he could buy grain at the next town and arrange for it to be brought here. Surely they would not scorn a wagon load of wheat, no matter who had sent it.

  At last Niamh nodded, and he released the breath he had been holding.

  “I will give Alanna my thanks when I see her, and as soon as may be, we will repay this debt.”

  “I will leave you to your mourning,” Devlin said. “May the Earth Mother watch over you and yours.”

  They left behind the ruined hamlet, but even after it disappeared from sight, it remained foremost in their minds. They rode in silence, for there was nothing that could be said about such a senseless tragedy. He was the Chosen One, and yet he could not defend his people against a plague, nor could he alter the poverty that caused them to rely upon such a chancy food source. And mixed with his anger over his helplessness was the fear that they might encounter more such tragedies as they continued their journey.

  Devlin guided his horse ahead of the others, in part driven by a wish for solitude, and in part because he wished to spare them his foul mood. He knew it was unfair, yet when he saw Stephen and Didrik, a voice within him whispered to him that these were Jorskians, born of the same race that oppressed his people, and were responsible for their plight.

  “You are wise not to trust them,” a deep voice said.

  It was a voice he had come to know well in these past few days. But this time it had taken visible form, as a dark cloaked rider on a coal black steed. The rider swung his head toward Devlin, but his face was featureless except for two glowing eyes.

  “I see this morning’s finds disturbed you,” Haakon continued. “Can you imagine how those people felt, as they saw husband turn on wife, and mothers killing their own children? Do you think they realized they were going mad? Or did they cheerfully embrace the horrors, enjoying the suffering of those they slew?”

  Devlin shook his head and began to hum softly. He would not give Haakon the satisfaction of reacting to his taunts.

  But no matter what he tried, the voice seemed to burn itself into his brain.

  Haakon laughed. “Of course you don’t have to wonder what they felt. You feel it, too. You are going mad, after all. How much longer do you think it will be before you turn on your friends?”

  “Never,” Devlin said. He kneed his horse to a trot, but the spectral horse matched his own, stride for stride.

  “Of course you will. You bring death to all those around you. It is your gift, for you are my creature. I could end your life in a heartbeat, but why should I bother, when you are so entertaining? I wonder how much longer you will persist in this foolish struggle before you beg me to take your life? Will it be when you have led your friends to their deaths? Or will you wait until you have witnessed the slaughter of your own people at the hands of those to whom you have sworn your allegiance?”

  “Never,” Devlin repeated. He would hold true to himself. He would not let the seeds of doubt that Haakon planted destroy him.

  “Kinslayer,” Haakon said softly. “Why should Cerrie wait for you alo
ne? Think of all those souls you have sent to join her and all those whose deaths you will carry. Stephen. Didrik. Murchadh, Alanna, and, of course their children. This will be your doom—I will never take your soul, and you will be left alive to grieve, long after those you loved have perished. All those still living will call you kinslayer and shun your presence, but you will not be able to escape into death. Instead your soul will remain on earth, even as your body rots and crumbles around you. Or perhaps if you beg me—”

  “No!” Devlin shouted. It took but a split second to release the throwing knife on his left arm and throw it toward his tormentor. Just as the knife pierced the edge of the cloak, both horse and rider disappeared.

  “Devlin!” Stephen cried.

  He came to himself as he saw Didrik bent over his saddle, having ducked to avoid the knife which flew over his head and landed harmlessly in the grass beside the road. Had Didrik’s reflexes been any slower, the knife would have struck him.

  Devlin yanked the reins, bringing his horse to an abrupt stop. The horse whinnied in protest, and bucked halfheartedly before subsiding.

  Devlin began to shake, and he balled his hands into fists to control them. He had come so close. If he had been a second slower on his throw, or if Didrik had not seen him in time …

  Haakon was right. Devlin was a danger to himself. And to his friends.

  Fourteen

  “HE IS GETTING WORSE,” DIDRIK SAID.

  “I know,” Stephen replied, his voice pitched low. His eyes sought out Devlin, who rode a few hundred yards ahead, seemingly oblivious to his companions’ worries.

  It was the fourth day since they had left Bengore. Four days since Devlin’s collapse on Midwinter’s Eve. Four days since he had witnessed the impossible. Four days of watching and fretting as Devlin’s behavior grew more and more strange.

  Didrik bit his lip, as he often did when uncertain.

  “It has been a long journey and hard enough on those of us who are ordinary men. Devlin has endured the pull of the Geas for nearly two months now, and what we saw yesterday at that village shook him. It is no wonder he is showing signs of the strain.”