Agneta had been one such, born with a craving in her blood for land that she could farm and pass down to her children. She and Cormack had been among the first to purchase one of the Earl’s land grants. Devlin and Cerrie had been among the last. They had no burning desire to start life over again as farmers. But Devlin had been grief-stricken at the prospect of separation from his brother, the only living member of his family. And Cerrie, generous soul that she was, had taken pity on him. Having no close kin ties of her own, and an adventurous spirit, she had declared herself ready for the challenge of settling a new land. They had left Alvaren with high hopes, little guessing the grief that lay ahead.
“Enough of what once was. Tell me what I need to know now. What do you know of the Children of Ynnis? Who are they, and what do they want with me?”
“Things have changed in these past years. Once the Children of Ynnis were mere malcontents and hot-headed youths. From time to time they’d pull off some prank, like the time they painted ‘Death to the Usurpers’ on the wall of the governor’s residence. We’d haul the ringleaders into gaol, fine them or sentence them to a few months of labor, and that would be all.”
Such matched Devlin’s memories. The Children of Ynnis had been simply a nuisance, more of a jest than a threat. It did not seem possible that they could be responsible for the planning and execution that the theft of the sword would have required.
“And now?” he prompted.
“About two, maybe three years ago now we noticed a change. The petty mischief stopped, and at first I breathed a sigh of relief. Then a royal messenger disappeared on the road from Kilbaran. The commander sent out search parties, looking for bandits, but found nothing. A fortnight later, his dismembered corpse was found in a ditch outside the main gate.”
“Did you ever find his killers?”
“A note pinned to his body claimed the Children of Ynnis had executed him, to send a message that no Jorskian should feel safe. We never did find out who had actually committed the deed.”
“Have there been other killings?”
“A few. Two more of yours and some of our own, suspected members of the Children of Ynnis who had their tongues cut out perhaps as a warning to others. I’ve come to believe that the killings are the work of a new group, hiding within the Children of Ynnis to throw us off the scent. From time to time we hear whispers of their doings and rumors that they are arming themselves for rebellion. But so far we’ve not been able to find their leaders, and the weapons you found last night were the first proof that they are indeed arming for war. They must be getting help from somewhere.”
“You think they have outside help?”
“The weapons you found were steel. Unlicensed imports. That takes gold and connections in Jorsk. A traitor on your side.”
“Or someone else stirring up trouble,” Devlin mused. Jorsk had its own enemies, who had already shown their willingness to use gold to fund unrest. Devlin had defeated their efforts in Korinth province, but who was to say that was the only scheme they had? A rebellion in Duncaer would be equally distracting, tying up troops and diverting attention from the real enemy.
“What of Jarlath, the Guild Master? Do you think he is involved?” Mychal asked.
“No, he seemed as outraged as any.” Once Jarlath had been known as a great craftsman, but as his eyes grew weak and the skill left his hands, he had turned instead to politics. For nearly twenty years he had prided himself on his control of the Metalsmiths’ Guild. Now his stewardship was called into question, for not only had he lost an object entrusted to him, but his own hall had been used to store illegal weapons. Devlin was not the only one who would be asking questions about whether Jarlath was still fit to lead.
But that was a matter for another day.
“The sword must be found,” Devlin said. “Whatever it takes.”
Mychal’s gaze searched his, then dropped down to Devlin’s crippled hand, as if reminding himself just how ruthless Devlin had become.
“Why? You will still be their General even without the sword.”
Devlin bit back the oath that rose to his lips. They did not understand. The General of the Royal Army was a reasonable man, one who would hesitate before lifting a hand against his own people. It was not the General they needed to fear, but rather the Chosen One. The Chosen One acknowledged nothing save duty. And as Chosen One, he would tear this city apart stone by stone, if that was what it took to find the sword.
“If you have not guessed already, you should know that the sword Roric brought out of Ynnis was no ordinary sword. It was the Sword of the Chosen One, handed down from one to another until Lord Saemund lost it in battle. This is the sword that Roric left to me, knowing nothing save that he wanted to leave it to his most favored student.”
Mychal blinked, his eyes wide with amazement. “But how can this be? How did he know? Roric was in his grave long before we had word that you had been named Champion.”
“Not Champion. Chosen One. And as for Roric, perhaps he, too, was touched by the Gods. You may ask them, when next you see them. As for me, that sword is destined for my hand. I will find it, and I will wield it in battle when I lead the army against the enemies of Jorsk. Any who stand in my way will be counted as traitors and dealt with according to the laws which govern both our peoples. Is that understood?”
Mychal shook his head, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “I do not understand any of this. I want no part of this strange madness that you have brought with you. But I will do everything I can to help you find that sword and send you on your way.”
Seventeen
STEPHEN LIFTED THE GLASS OF ALE TO HIS LIPS and tried not to grimace as he took a sip. He had never developed a taste for the bitter drink, and here the brewers had outdone themselves, producing a gritty, grain-filled beverage that practically demanded he chew it before swallowing. He set the glass firmly down on the table before him, trying not to shudder. And to think this was the finest this place had to offer.
At least there was one consolation. He had no fear of becoming so drunk that he forgot himself.
He leaned back on his stool and surveyed the room. Like the previous four taverns he had visited, this one was smaller than he was accustomed to, with a low ceiling that made it feel even more cramped. There were no private booths, but rather two long tables in the center of the room, where perhaps two dozen could sit elbow to elbow. A narrow shelf ran around three sides of the room, just wide enough to hold a glass or a tankard. Stools were lined up underneath the shelves, and Stephen had appropriated one of these for his use.
Three men and two women sat at one of the tables, eating a late midday meal, or perhaps an early supper. They were far more intent on their food than on conversation, and when they did speak, it was of ordinary things. One complained that his new boots had blistered his feet. Another complained of their taskmaster and his habit of making them labor in the rain when anyone could see that such was wasted effort. The taskmaster was soundly disparaged by all, and then one woman began to describe the difficulties she was having with her new husband.
Ordinary conversation by ordinary folk. Not a single whisper of the Children of Ynnis, or of Devlin’s return to his homeland. Nothing that was of any value.
Stephen surveyed the handful of other drinkers who occupied stools around the room, but they were all solitary souls, far too intent on their drinking to pay any mind to a stranger. And he had learned from his first two tavern visits that a stranger did not try to introduce himself. Behavior that was considered courteous in Jorsk had gotten him ejected twice, with the polite but firm request that he not return.
At the third place he had visited, the problem had been the opposite. The servingwoman had suggested that she could teach him the ballad of the Crimson Hawk, an offer which made the other patrons laugh. But the laughter had an ugly ring to it, and there had been a cold glint in her eye, that belied her jesting words, so he had quickly taken his leave.
He was beginning to suspect that
Devlin had sent him on a fool’s errand. Devlin must have known how insular these taverns were and how slight the chance was that any would talk to a stranger. As for overhearing incriminating conversations, he could hardly do so when the taverns were practically deserted. Perhaps later, after the sun had set, he might be able to mingle with the crowds unobserved. But for now, this was wasted effort.
And while he sat and tried to choke down bitter ale, who knew what Devlin was up to? He could have helped him, but once again Devlin had chosen to distance himself from Stephen. Ever since Midwinter’s Eve, in fact, he had been cold and aloof. Yesterday he had refused to let Stephen accompany him when he went to retrieve the sword and had given no reason for his actions. It hurt that he had taken Didrik with him instead. Didrik, who knew nothing of the lore of the great sword and had no true understanding of its history. Stephen had tried to console himself with the knowledge that Devlin was merely showing prudence in taking along a bodyguard.
But while this was the most obvious explanation, it was not necessarily the true one. Didrik was Devlin’s friend, but first and foremost he was a lieutenant of the guard, accustomed to obeying his commander, even when he disagreed. Didrik seemed to have forgotten that Devlin had nearly killed him, but Stephen could not. And while Didrik expressed concern over Devlin’s growing strangeness, in the end Didrik would do as he was told.
Stephen was a different matter, for he was not under Devlin’s command. Stephen would put his friendship with Devlin over the success of the quest, going against Devlin’s wishes if it meant helping his friend. He had done it before. And Devlin knew this—which perhaps explained why he was keeping Stephen at arm’s length these days.
Not that there was anything he could do. If the Geas was weighing heavily on Devlin’s spirit, there was little he could do save offer his friendship. And even that was denied.
He sighed.
“The porter is not to your liking? If it is sweet wine you want, there are taverns near the garrison that cater to the tastes of northern soldiers.”
Stephen flinched at the unexpected voice. He had been so lost in thought that he had not noticed the tavern servant’s approach. “The porter is fine,” he lied, speaking in the Caer tongue. “But I will admit I am disappointed. I am no soldier, but rather a minstrel come to learn new songs. But if no one will speak with me, how can I hope to learn anything?”
“If you are a minstrel, where is your harp?” the man asked.
“The journey was too arduous to risk either lap harp or lute, so I left my instruments behind,” Stephen said. It had pained him not to bring his lute, but Devlin had insisted that they pack only the bare essentials. For a winter journey, an extra woolen cloak or sack of grain was far more valuable than a mere lute. Though if he was to continue this ruse, he might need to find a lute he could purchase to bolster his story.
Wood scraped against stone as the diners pushed their benches back, then rose to their feet. As they left, they called out farewells to the servant, whose name was apparently Teomas.
Teomas left Stephen’s side and disappeared through a curtain that led to a back room. He emerged carrying a tray, which he set on the table, and began to fill it with the empty plates and glasses.
“You still have your voice, do you not? A song would make the work go faster,” Teomas called over his shoulder.
It was less an invitation than a challenge, but Stephen had sung before far more hostile audiences.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said. He thought a moment, then launched into the first verse of “Cold Hearts,” a song about two feuding lovers trapped by a blizzard.
In Jorsk it was an old song, but here he wagered it was new, and the subject would be novel to a people that seldom saw more than a few flakes of snow in the sky. As the verses unfolded, Teomas’s movements slowed, and finally he gave up even the pretense of wiping down the trestle table. The song ended with springtime, and the discovery of the bodies of the two lovers, frozen in their final embrace. There had been nights when he made men and women weep with a rendition of “Cold Hearts,” but now, as the last notes faded away, there was silence.
Stephen felt vaguely foolish. An old woman banged her glass against the shelf. He thought it might be a sign of approval, but Teomas picked up his tray and brought the dishes to the back room, then returned carrying a pitcher of ale, which he used to fill the old woman’s glass. Then he proceeded around the room to check on the other drinkers before returning to Stephen’s side. He filled Stephen’s glass back up to the top, then poured a glass for himself.
This time he pulled out a stool and sat beside him. “Whatever else you may be, you have the singer’s gift,” Teomas said.
“Thank you.”
The servant took a long draught of his ale. “Afternoons are quiet, but come evening you will find singers and lore tellers in most places. Some have the true gift and others just entertain their friends. Ordinarily I’d invite you to come back here tonight and trade songs. But not this night, nor any night this week.”
“Why not?”
“Because the fearnym has come to stir up trouble.”
“The what?” Stephen’s grasp of Caer speech was improving, but this word he did not recognize.
“Him that turned his back on his people and went to serve your kind.” Teomas made a gesture with his right hand that was probably intended to be insulting.
“The Chosen One?”
“Whatever he calls himself. He came here where he had no right and is making trouble. First he used some pretext to harass the metalsmiths because they banished him from their ranks. Now he is using the soldiers to harass honest folk, settling old scores.”
A protest rose to Stephen’s lips, but he swiftly bit it back. Defending Devlin was hardly likely to endear him to this man, nor would it help him find out what he needed to know.
“I heard he was searching for rebels. The Children of somewhere or another.”
“The Children of Ynnis are a myth, made up to give the army an excuse to do what it pleases,” Teomas said loudly.
“Hear, hear,” one of the drinkers agreed, raising his glass in salute.
“There is no threat here, just a power-mad man come to take his revenge. The metalsmiths banished him from their ranks, and his own kin disowned him. An honest man would accept their judgment, but this Devlin is a different breed. He curried favor with your kind and is now using his power to crush those who once stood against him. And what defense do we have? None. His master the King cares not what happens in Duncaer. He can do as he likes to us.”
“The Chosen One is a man of honor,” Stephen said, unable to keep silent any longer. “He acts only to punish wrongdoers or to defend the Kingdom.”
“Maybe that is the way of it in Jorsk,” Teomas said. “But here in Duncaer it is a different story. Until he leaves there will be no peace for any of us, and neither will we welcome any minstrel who may be a spy. If you’re still here after the Chosen One leaves, then we can talk again. But for now, my patrons and I would find it a kindness if you would return to your own people.”
At the end of the day they met back at the governor’s residence, with nothing to show for their troubles save aching feet and a growing sense of frustration. Devlin’s head throbbed, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep as he listened to the others recount their lack of progress.
And every time his thoughts wandered, he heard the Dread Lord whispering to him, telling Devlin that his quest was doomed to fail.
“We must start at the beginning, with who could have taken the sword and why? Who knew of the sword’s existence? And how did the rebels know you were coming to retrieve it?” Lord Kollinar ticked off each question on his fingers.
“More importantly, when was it taken?” Didrik asked, not to be outdone. “For all we know this could have been done months ago, when they first heard of Devlin’s appointment as Chosen One. The note refers to the ‘Sword of the Chosen One,’ but that does not mean that they know it
is the sacred sword. They could have taken it as an act of retribution, simply because it belonged to Devlin and they now consider him a traitor.”
Lord Kollinar nodded slowly. “You may be correct. In which case the culprits may have vanished months ago, taking the sword with them.”
“Or destroyed it. Thus they could punish the Chosen One and eliminate the one thing that could tie them to the crime,” Didrik said.
“No,” Stephen protested. “The sword was forged by a son of Egil. I do not believe it could simply be melted down or broken. Not without a great working of magic, which surely would have attracted the attention of the guards.”
“Here they are peacekeepers,” Devlin corrected him. “But I agree with you that the sword is probably intact. They may have preserved it as a bargaining tool. Or simply kept it as a weapon, for even a fool can see that it is an uncommonly fine sword.”
“Then we must begin again with the metalsmiths,” Didrik said. “A stranger could not wander into the storeroom and find the sword. Not without help. Someone in that guild helped them find the sword. Perhaps the same person who is responsible for the weapons cache.”
“We have already questioned Jarlath and the senior guild members. And searched their homes,” Devlin said.
“Then we question them again. And we question the junior members, down to the lowliest apprentice. Anyone who might have knowledge of the sword or of suspicious goings-on.”
“I agree with the lieutenant,” Kollinar said. Like Didrik, he seemed to put his faith in discipline and regulations. Good qualities to have in an administrator. Any search he conducted would be painstakingly thorough. “We need to start with those who had access to the sword. Someone in that guild hall knows the truth, and when we find that person, they will lead us to it.”
It was not that simple. Maybe in Jorsk it could be done that way, but this was Duncaer. His people had decades of practice in keeping secrets from their conquerors. And the web of kin and craft ties would ensure that no one would step forward on their own, for to break the code of silence was to risk ostracism, the ultimate punishment in a society where mutual interdependence was a way of life.
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