Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  Sixteen

  “YOUR FRIEND MURCHADH BETRAYED YOU.” DIDRIK’S tone was flat, but there was sympathy in his dark eyes.

  Murchadh betrayed you, echoed the voice within his mind. See how your friends turn against you.

  “No,” Devlin replied, his hand slashing through the air in a gesture of negation. As his restless pacing brought him to the window, he spun on his heel to face the room.

  They were in the governor’s private receiving room, which Devlin had appropriated to his own use. The hour was long past midnight, but he felt no urge to seek his bed. Sleep was impossible for him now.

  Stephen was sprawled out on one couch, his stocking feet tucked under him. Didrik had chosen to perch on top of the governor’s desk, which put him closer to Devlin’s eye level. As for Devlin, he could not sit, could not stay still. The churning of his mind was matched by the restlessness of his body as he tried to understand what had happened and what he needed to do next.

  “It is the only explanation that makes sense,” Didrik continued. “Who else knew that the sword your old master held was the lost sword of the Chosen One? Everyone believed the sword lost in Ynnis. Only the three of us, Captain Drakken, Solveig, and your friend Murchadh knew the truth.”

  “No,” Devlin insisted, though the words were like acid in his mouth.

  “But—”

  “No,” he shouted. Then he lowered his voice. “If it were you or Stephen so accused, should I be so quick to judge? Murchadh is not here to defend himself, so as friend and adopted brother I must do so for him. I hold him innocent until proven otherwise. There must be another explanation.”

  Murchadh could not have betrayed him. It was not possible. Yet even as he denied the accusations, he felt the seed of doubt form within him. Perhaps the betrayal had not been deliberate? Perhaps Murchadh had simply spoken out of turn, entrusting the secret to one who had ties to the rebels? Yet even this was cold comfort, for a true friend would never have betrayed Devlin’s confidence by sharing it with another.

  Devlin ran the fingers of his good hand through his hair as he tried to order his thoughts. Even if Murchadh had been the one to reveal the secret, such was little help to him. Any answers that Murchadh possessed were a fortnight away. Devlin needed knowledge now. Who had taken the sword? What had they done with it? Was it still here in the city or had it been spirited far away?

  Ensign Annasdatter and her soldiers had supervised the guild apprentices as they searched each square inch of the storeroom, then they searched the rest of the guild hall. They had found a surprising number of swords, far more than the guild hall should have any reason to own. But none were the sword he sought.

  Devlin had given orders that Jarlath’s personal residence was to be searched as well, but that, too, had turned up nothing. Not that he really suspected Jarlath. The Guild Master had been genuinely outraged by the theft of an object under his care. Such an incident was unknown in the history of the guild. He angrily denied any link between the guild and the outlaws, even when confronted by the cache of swords.

  A messenger had been sent to Lord Kollinar, instructing him to round up suspected members of the Children of Ynnis for questioning. There was no point in trying to keep this quiet. By morning the entire city would know what it was that he sought.

  Devlin wondered when the rebels had grown so bold, and well organized. The weapons cache spoke of planning, and he wondered just how many other such stockpiles were hidden around the city, or in the surrounding countryside. He had lived in Alvaren most of his life, yet never suspected that the Children of Ynnis were more than a small handful of malcontents. Had things really changed so much in the three years he had been gone? Or was he only now seeing the truth?

  “What is it these rebels want?” Stephen asked.

  “They want to undo the events of the past sixty years. They want the invasion never to have happened. They want the garrisons emptied of soldiers, the granaries unlocked, and the clan leaders to elect a new queen to the throne. In short they want the impossible.”

  “And what do they expect of the Chosen One?” Didrik asked.

  “The scroll did not say, only that they awaited the chance to meet me. No doubt they will send a further message, telling me when and where this is to take place.”

  He felt helpless, for there was nothing he could do. Not until he either heard from the rebels or the soldiers brought news as to where the sword might be hidden.

  So much depended on the Children of Ynnis, and of what they wanted from him. Did they have any understanding of the value of the sword? Or of what it meant to be Chosen One? Did they think him sympathetic to their cause?

  If so, they were in for a nasty shock. To be Chosen One was to bear a terrible burden, for it meant he could not leave this place until he had recovered the sword or convinced himself that it was destroyed. Theft of the sword could be considered treason, and Devlin would be well within his rights to order retribution against the folk of Alvaren. He could impose fines, seize property, or take hostages. He could even order the executions of those suspected of aiding the rebels. It would be as if the dark days of conquest had come all over again.

  Or perhaps that was what they wanted. Perhaps they hoped to provoke him into acts of oppression that would enable them to unite the people in rebellion. They would not accept that such a rebellion would ultimately be doomed. The Jorskian army was too entrenched to be dislodged.

  He wondered if this is what Haakon had meant when he had told Devlin that he would lead his people to their deaths.

  “I wonder if the rebels know just what it is they have done. By furthering their cause, they place the entire Kingdom in jeopardy, trapping you here to search for the sword as the enemies of Jorsk wreak havoc on our borders.” Stephen’s face bore a troubled frown and Devlin knew he was thinking of his home province of Esker, which was far too close to the border with Nerikaat for comfort.

  “It will not come to that,” Devlin said, trying to project a sense of optimism that he did not feel. “We will find the sword, then make all haste back to Kingsholm. And once there, I will convince the King to release the army from its garrisons. Esker will not be left to fend for itself, that I promise.”

  Yet even as he spoke the comforting words, a voice inside him whispered that they were a lie. You are doomed to fail, the voice whispered. And in defeat you will be mine.

  The long night passed with no further news on who had taken the sword or where it might be. At dawn the servants brought fresh kava, and hard on their heels was Lord Kollinar. He, too, had spent a sleepless night, and it showed in his unshaven face and the dark circles under his eyes. But his voice was calm as he described how he had carried out Devlin’s orders. Searches of homes of senior guild members had turned up nothing. And as instructed, they had rounded up and questioned two dozen folk suspected of sympathizing with the Children of Ynnis. Apprentices and students for the most part, though whether they were guilty of anything more than singing seditious songs on the feast days was a matter for debate. If the army had any real proof of their treason, they would have been imprisoned, and not merely on a list of potential troublemakers.

  Lord Kollinar suggested that stronger forms of questioning might reveal the truth that was sought, but Devlin wanted no part of torture. Instead he directed that those rounded up be questioned again, to see if a night in gaol had freed up their tongues. And then they were to be released.

  “Arrange with the peacekeepers to have them followed. Should there be any among them with a guilty conscience, they may seek to leave the city, or lead us to their friends,” Devlin said. The chances of such were slim, but he was ready to grasp at any straw.

  “It will be as you say. I have already spoken with Chief Mychal, the commander of the peacekeepers, and he assures me that they are willing to do whatever they can to catch the thieves,” Lord Kollinar said. He lifted his mug to his lips and swallowed the remains of his kava in two quick gulps. Then he rose to his feet. “I m
ust return to the garrison. Do you wish to accompany me and supervise the final questioning personally?”

  “No. With your permission I will send Lieutenant Didrik as my representative.” He could trust Didrik to ensure that those in custody were treated fairly. “As for myself, I have other inquiries I wish to make.”

  “There is a squad of soldiers outside who will accompany you wherever you wish to go.”

  “I need no such coddling.”

  “I disagree. It is not safe for you to wander the streets alone. Especially not now. The Children of Ynnis have achieved one success. This may embolden them to even more rash actions. And I have no wish to be known as the officer who let the Chosen One get murdered on his watch.”

  How often had he heard the same speech from Captain Drakken? Strange to think that he had traveled all this distance only to find that nothing had changed.

  “You may find it useful to have an escort, should you need to search somewhere,” Didrik pointed out. “And you can always use them as runners, to keep in touch with us at the garrison.”

  “I will consider it,” Devlin said, knowing he had been outmaneuvered. “If you do not hear from me before then, I will plan on meeting up with you here, at the hour of sunset, so we can share what we have learned.”

  “Yes, General.” Lord Kollinar gave a short bow, then he and Didrik took their leaves.

  Stephen rose to his feet and raised his arms over his head, stretching to relieve muscles grown stiff with inactivity. Then he picked up his mug and crossed to the table, where he refilled it. After a glance at Devlin he brought the pitcher over and refilled his mug as well.

  Devlin took a sip. The kava was now barely lukewarm, and bitter on his tongue. Still he welcomed the harsh bite and the energy that surged through his veins. Sleep was a luxury he could not afford, and he would need all his wits about him today.

  “So what errand do you have for us?” Stephen asked. “What inquiries do you have to make? Someone or somewhere you don’t wish the good governor to know about?”

  “We are going nowhere. I must consult the peacekeepers, and they will talk more freely if I am alone,” Devlin said. Though whether they would help him he did not know. Mychal he knew of old, for he had been chief in Cerrie’s time. Mychal held little love for Jorskians, but even less for those who disturbed the order of his city. If he could convince Mychal that the Children of Ynnis were a threat to that order, then he would have the full weight of the peacekeepers behind him.

  “As for you, I have something different in mind. The folk of the city got a good look at Didrik and I yesterday, especially with the fracas at the guild hall, but you may have been overlooked. I want you to go to the taverns and see what gossip you can pick up.”

  Stephen lifted his left hand and tugged at his long brown hair. “I can hardly pass as one of your people. They will know I am a foreigner.”

  “And that is exactly what you shall be. A wandering minstrel, come to Alvaren and anxious to collect new songs for your repertoire. There is enough truth in it that you should have no trouble playing the part. Steer the conversation as you will. Ask for news of recent events, or turn the talk to the old days and the songs of the time before the conquest. Whatever you think will work,” Devlin said with a shrug. “Just watch how much you drink, and if you think you are in any danger, make a hasty exit and summon help.”

  “The taverns will not open for hours yet.”

  “Then you should seek your bed. If you are going to spend the day drinking, you should not be sleepless as well. Just be careful.”

  “And you as well,” Stephen said. “Remember, without the right man to wield it, the sword is nothing more than a lump of metal. Jorsk needs you. Alive.”

  “I will do my best,” Devlin replied.

  Yesterday the crowds had whispered as he passed. Now the braver among them called out fearnym, or turned and spit as he passed. Had he still been wholly of Duncaer, such insults would be sufficient to provoke an honor challenge. Now they were simply part of the price he paid for having sworn allegiance to their conquerors. He searched his memory but could not recall Lord Kollinar ever inspiring such ill treatment. Then again, the governor was of Jorsk. He, at least, was not a traitor to his own people.

  Either the squad of soldiers at his back or their own native caution prevented the crowds from offering anything more than mere taunts. Still the threat of violence was ever-present, and Devlin could not help scanning the faces of those that watched him pass, wondering who among them concealed a throwing knife or a small bow under their cloaks.

  He wondered if any of the voices that shouted insults at him belonged to someone he had once called friend.

  The peacekeepers’ compound was located at the southern end of the city, where the steep hillside briefly leveled off to provide an open training ground. As he approached, he saw that the field was occupied, with a group of peacekeepers practicing staff drills under the watchful eye of a senior sergeant. He counted twenty in all—a double band in peacekeeper terms. His attention was caught by a tall, slender woman, whose dark curls bounced as she spun around, then thrust her staff forward and disarmed her opponent. She grinned, and to show there were no hard feelings bent down to pick up the staff and handed it back.

  Devlin’s heart twisted in his chest, and his voice was rough as he turned to his escort. “Wait here,” he told them. Then he began picking his way around the edges of the muddy field. A few halted their bouts to stare at him until they were swiftly recalled to their duty by the shouts of their instructor. As he reached the far side of the field, one of the sergeants who had been observing the practice came to meet him.

  “I am here to see your chief,” Devlin said.

  The sergeant nodded, but did not speak. His features were familiar, and Devlin remembered meeting him before. Eoin or perhaps Sean was his name, and he had been one of the veteran trainers in Cerrie’s day. But if he recognized Devlin, he made no sign of it. Instead, he turned and led the way, past the stable and storehouses into the main building. They walked past the entrance to the mess hall, up a flight of stairs, then down the corridor until they reached a partially opened door. The sergeant knocked once, then pushed the door open.

  Devlin entered, and shut the door behind him.

  Chief Mychal was much as he remembered. His once black hair was now totally white, but his blue eyes were sharp, and his muscled arms had lost none of their power.

  “Devlin. General. Your noble pomposity, or whatever they call you these days. You cost me a month’s salary, I’ll have you know.”

  Devlin paused, and rocked back on his heels at the unexpectedness of the greeting.

  “How so?”

  Mychal smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “When the news came that a man of Duncaer calling himself Devlin Stonehand had been named Champion of Jorsk, a few swore it was you, but I told them they were fools. The Devlin I knew could hardly hold a sword. He was not a man to slay monsters or banish demons. I insisted it must be some other misguided soul. Imagine my surprise when the royal decree arrived, naming you General of the Royal Army, and listing your parentage. Saskia treated her entire band to a three-day drinking spree on what she won off me.”

  He remembered Saskia, who had been of an age with Cerrie and the first to join her band when Cerrie had made sergeant. She had been a good friend to Cerrie, and thus had known Devlin well, in the days when he had been a metalsmith, renowned for his skill in creating objects of beauty. He wondered what Saskia had seen in him then that convinced her he was the man mentioned in the strange stories emanating out of Jorsk.

  “So tell me, did you really do all they say?” Mychal asked.

  Devlin took a seat opposite his host, not waiting to be invited. “Probably not. Not if you have been listening to tavern ballads.”

  “And still they named you General?”

  Devlin took a deep breath, reminding himself that he needed this man’s good will, not his enmity. “Yes, I slew a lake
monster in the province of Esker. Yes, with the help of a friend I destroyed a hellborn creature of magic. Yes, I led troops as they fought forest bandits. And yes, I challenged Duke Gerhard, the General of the Army and the King’s Personal Champion to a duel to the death, and yes, I prevailed and proved him traitor. Is that what you wish to know?”

  Mychal shook his head thoughtfully. “It is hard to believe. I remember the day when Cerrie had you join her novices at their training. You did not know one end of a sword from the other, and were more a danger to yourself than to anyone else.”

  “Then I had no need for sword skills. Now many things have changed.”

  “True. But plainly those who taught you had no skill of their own to share. If they had, you would still be whole and not crippled,” Mychal said, proving that his eyes were as sharp as ever.

  “Their training served me well. And as for this,” Devlin flexed the remaining fingers of his right hand. “This was about winning, regardless of the cost.”

  “If Cerrie could see you now—”

  “Enough,” Devlin said. He had not come here to open up old wounds. “The past is gone, and cannot be changed. If Cerrie were here, alive, then I would still be a metalsmith, the missing sword just one more relic of Ynnis.”

  But Mychal was not willing to let the matter rest. “I warned you. I warned you both,” he said. “The New Territories were dangerous. Risky. You had no place there, and no business dragging Cerrie along with you.”

  “You tell me nothing I do not already know,” Devlin said.

  The New Territories had been a risk. But they had also offered opportunity. For the first time in over fifty years, Caerfolk were offered the chance to buy land that could be cleared for farming. Against such potential riches, few had paid heed to the old legends surrounding the forest that bordered the endless mountains. Instead, families who had endured exile in the cities for two generations had joined together to raise the necessary coin to allow their most favored daughters to take advantage of this opportunity.