Not to mention that regardless of what happened, they would hate him for this.
“General? Will you give the order or shall I?” Lord Kollinar prompted.
“I will sign the order,” Devlin said. Because, in the end, he had no choice. Retrieving the sword was the only thing that truly mattered. And if there was even the smallest chance that someone in the metalsmiths guild could be persuaded to break their silence, then he had to act.
He thought for a moment, then continued. “I will not insult them by offering a reward. But we should let it be known that if the sword is returned within the next two days that no questions will be asked of the bearer and no reprisals made. And the questioning should be done by the peacekeepers. You may send one of yours to observe, but Chief Mychal’s people will be in charge.”
“If you insist—”
“I do.” Devlin said. The peacekeepers would be fair, and would ensure that the questioning did not get out of hand. This situation was bad enough. He did not need to worry about an overzealous soldier deciding that a judicious bit of torture would be more likely to inspire the truth from his reluctant witnesses.
He tried very hard not to think about the fact that these were not faceless enemies that would be questioned. These were the men and women who had taught him his craft. Friends who had sweated with him as they labored at the forge, then fidgeted at their desks in the great hall as the masters lectured from their books. Even his own two former apprentices would be dragged in for questioning.
They would hate him for involving the Jorskians in guild affairs. For the humiliation of being treated like criminals, for ordering their homes searched and their families questioned. And yet he knew there was nothing he could do or say that would make them understand. How could he? Three years ago he would not have understood it himself.
He felt an ache in his soul. This hurt far more than seeing the blank spot on the wall where once his name had been engraved. That he could blame on guild politics and the envy of a few senior masters. But what he was about to do now would ensure that the entire guild turned its back on him, as word of what had happened here spread throughout Duncaer.
His name would be reviled, along with that of Saemund and the treacherous Ysobel. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
A soft voice broke into his musings.
“Devlin?”
“Yes?” Devlin blinked, surprised to find himself the focus of three pairs of eyes. Kollinar’s face was that of a politician, with no expression that could be read. But Didrik and Stephen looked worried.
He wondered how many times Stephen had called his name before he had finally responded.
“It has been a long day. For all of us,” Didrik said diplomatically. “Let me scribe the order for you to sign, then I think we should dine and seek our beds.”
Devlin did not know how he could be expected to sleep. But there was nothing else he could do. As much as it irked him, he would have to rely upon others to lead the hunt for the sword.
Lord Kollinar summoned his servants and instructed them to set out a simple repast in the dining room. While they were doing so, Devlin dictated the order and Didrik made three copies. The first was given to Lord Kollinar, while the second was sent by runner to Chief Mychal. The third was kept by Didrik, for the Royal Archives.
Now there was nothing to do except wait and see what news the morning brought.
Eighteen
TWO DAYS AFTER THE MISSING SWORD HAD BEEN discovered, a scroll addressed to Devlin was found on the garrison steps. Apparently it had been left there overnight, though the soldiers who had sentry duty swore that they had seen nothing. The message was simple enough, that the sword would be returned to Devlin only after the army garrisons were emptied and the last Jorskian soldier had departed Duncaer. The letter was signed in the name of the Children of Ynnis.
Their demands were absurd. Only the King himself could order the withdrawal of the occupying army, and that he would never do. King Olafur clung too tightly to Duncaer as the symbol of his father’s greatness, a reminder of the days when Jorsk had been a military power to be feared. Other pieces of his empire might be crumbling, but Duncaer, at least, was still firmly within his grasp, and so it would remain.
Didrik was of the opinion that the scroll was a hoax, since the writer offered no proof that they were the ones who had taken the sword. Without a sketch of the hilt, or even a mere description of the sword, there was no way to tell if these were the people who held the sword. Not that it really mattered. Devlin could not meet their demands, and they had given him no means to contact the Children of Ynnis and open negotiations. He would have to wait until they chose to send another message, and hope in the meanwhile that the teams scouring the city found some trace of the missing sword.
That night a servant awoke Devlin shortly after midnight, with the news that Chief Mychal had arrived and wished to speak with both Devlin and Kollinar. He wondered what was so urgent that they must be roused in the middle of the night. Had the peacekeepers found the missing sword?
“Shall I wake your aide?” the chamberman asked, handing Devlin a robe which he belted over his night-shirt. He did not bother with socks, but forced his feet into boots.
“No. If I need him, I will send for him later,” Devlin said. It had been late when they sought their beds, and they had not slept at all the night before.
“Chief Mychal is waiting in the governor’s study,” the chamberman said.
“Thank you.” He took the offered lamp and made his way swiftly through the corridor and down the stairs. He entered the study to find that Governor Kollinar was already there, looking remarkably alert considering the hour and his own lack of rest.
One look at Chief Mychal’s face told him that he was not the bearer of good news.
“What has happened?” Devlin asked.
It was Kollinar who responded. “Ensign Annasdatter failed to report for duty this evening, not unheard of, but unusual in one so conscientious. I sent a patrol to check the taverns, and asked the peacekeepers to keep a watch for her.”
“We found her body a short while ago, in a street not far from the Metalsmiths’ Guild’s hall. The cord used to strangle her was still wrapped around her neck, and the sign of a bird had been carved into her forehead,” Chief Mychal said.
“A bird,” Devlin repeated stupidly. He rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, as he tried to force his sleep-addled wits to respond.
“The shape of a hawk. A crimson hawk.”
Chief Mychal’s voice was curiously flat as he elaborated, drawing the conclusion that should have been obvious. His people used birds as symbols in many ways, but always as part of a larger motif. A solitary bird could have only one interpretation.
“This means something to you,” Kollinar said.
“Yes,” Devlin replied.
He remembered Ensign Annasdatter. He had met her two days ago, when she had taken charge of the patrol that accompanied him to the Metalsmiths’ Guild. At the time he had thought her a mere child, one too young for her rank. Now she would never grow older.
A chill swept over him, and he crossed the room, taking a seat on the bench closest to the hearth. A part of him wondered when the servants had had time to build up the fire. Had it taken them that long to summon him? Or did they not bank the fire at night, keeping the room warm in case of late night callers?
Even as he mused, he realized the absurdity of his thoughts. Whether they were bright flames or sullen embers, it did not matter. No fire could dispel the chill on his soul as he realized that this was another death that he had caused, however indirectly.
Deathbringer, the mind-voice whispered, and Devlin was forced to agree.
“Chosen One?” Lord Kollinar prompted.
He came back to himself with a start, realizing that his companions had taken their own seats and were waiting for him to explain.
“In our oldest tales, the crimson hawk is the guardian spirit tha
t led our ancestors to settle in these mountains. Legend says that it will return to guide us in times of great need. Of late, some tales say that the return of the crimson hawk will signal the end of Jorskian rule,” Devlin explained.
“The Children of Ynnis have not used this symbol in the past, but this may be a sign that there is new leadership at work within the rebel groups. Is there any reason why they would have singled out this Ensign?” Mychal asked.
“She was in charge of the detail assigned to me, and she supervised the search of the Metalsmiths’ Guild,” Devlin said.
Another death added to his tally. The choice of Annasdatter had not been random. They had not chosen just any army officer, but one with a direct link to Devlin. The Children of Ynnis were sending him a message that they were to be taken seriously.
But it did not matter if they killed one soldier or a hundred. He could not give them what they wanted. And without a means to contact them, he had no means of negotiating.
“My people questioned everyone they could find, but no one witnessed the Ensign’s killing, or saw who dumped the body,” Chief Mychal said. “I doubt very much we will catch the killers. We don’t even know if they are connected to those who took the sword.”
Kollinar nodded. “But we cannot let this go unpunished. My men will select the hostages in the morning.”
“Hostages?” Devlin asked.
“Three hostages, chosen at random from the city,” the governor explained. “We will choose them at dawn, and then give the true murderers a chance to win their freedom by confessing. If the killers do not come forward, then we will execute the hostages on the following day.”
“No,” Devlin said. He understood Kollinar’s anger. Ensign Annasdatter had been one of his own. Her death must be avenged. But the killing of innocents was not justice, it was murder.
“No?” Kollinar repeated. “Shall I let the city degenerate into chaos? Already I have enough troubles. Just this past week I have received half a dozen reports of new outbreaks of the grain sickness, including the first report from the southern districts. We must replace the bad grain with city stores, which leaves us dangerously low, and yet to let the people starve would be an even surer way to incite rebellion. And your presence here has stirred up decades of resentment. It would take very little to provoke the people to violence. Now, of all times, we cannot afford to appear weak.”
“Bad enough that they have made us all look foolish by stealing the sword,” Chief Mychal said. “The search of the city is turning even ordinary folk against you. If we do not act swiftly, there will be more killings.”
“And can you guarantee me that peace is to be bought at the cost of three innocent lives?” He could not believe that Mychal was arguing in support of Kollinar’s plan.
“It is the law, when one of theirs is killed,” Mychal replied. “Three of our lives for each one of theirs.”
It may have been the law, but it had not been enforced in Devlin’s lifetime. Not since the first years after the conquest, when, exhausted by the years of blood feuds, the surviving Caerfolk had settled into an uneasy peace with their conquerors.
“It may be the law, but it is not right. It is not just,” Devlin argued.
“Fine,” Kollinar snapped, throwing up his hands.
“Then tell me, how do you plan to control this city? They tested us once by taking the sword. A second time by killing Annasdatter. The next step may well be armed riots in the streets, which will lead to dozens of innocents being killed. Who will find justice for them?”
Devlin ground his teeth in frustration, for a part of him knew that Kollinar was right. To appear weak or indecisive was to incite further violence. As Chosen One it was his duty to preserve the peace and to uphold the law. Never had he hated his duty more than he did at this moment.
“Very well, you may take your hostages,” Devlin said. “But I will not rest until we have found the sword and seen the true killers brought to justice.”
“Then we must hope that the true killers surrender themselves. Only cowards would let others die in their place,” Kollinar replied.
“Of course,” Devlin said, but in his heart he feared that it would not be that simple. The rebels might well decide that three innocent lives were a fair price to pay, if it helped rouse the ordinary folk of Alvaren against the occupying soldiers. And then more killings would follow, as the cycle of murder and retaliation escalated, with neither side sparing a thought for the innocent lives that were being destroyed.
The next morning, two men and a woman were taken as hostages. As he had feared, no one came forward to take their place, so they were executed the next day. Devlin knew his presence would only incite the crowd, so he sent Didrik as his witness. Didrik reported that those gathered had cursed the Chosen One and Governor Kollinar, rather than placing the blame on the rebels. It was an ominous sign.
He dismissed Didrik curtly and went to the governor’s study, leaving orders that he was not to be disturbed. The long worktable was covered with stacks of bound scrolls, containing the records of the peacekeepers for the past seven years. Didrik and Chief Mychal’s people had already combed through the reports once, but now Devlin wanted to read them for himself, looking for any patterns that might emerge. Surely the new Children of Ynnis had not sprung into being overnight. Their activities would have been noticed over the years, perhaps written off as small mischiefs or isolated incidents, but still there would be some record of them in these journals.
There was no one else who could take on the task. The peacekeepers were unlikely to find what they had already overlooked, and Didrik did not know the Caerfolk well enough to know what was significant and what was not. So it was left to Devlin to comb through the watch reports, listings of those arrested for drunkenness, public brawling, the occasional petty theft, or the rare acts of violence. His eyes began to burn, but he saw no great patterns or signs of hidden conspiracies. Just the tedium of everyday life, laid bare in dry prose. He came across mention of a murdered Jorskian trader, but the man’s lover had confessed to the deed, her hands still red with his blood when the peacekeepers arrested her. It was unlikely that she had killed the trader as part of a rebel plot, but Devlin made a note that her family was to be questioned. Just in case.
Yet even as he squinted at the faded writing, his thoughts kept turning to the hostages who had been executed that morning. Now that it was too late, he wished that he had been present to bear witness to their deaths. It seemed somehow wrong that he knew their names and not their faces. In a sense, they, too, had died for him. Died because the Chosen One had come to their city.
Their families curse your name.
Devlin raised his head from the reports to see a dark figure seated opposite him. It was the mere shape of a man, with no true features to be seen, save for the glittering eyes.
Devlin closed his eyes and shook his head. But when he opened his eyes, the figure was still there.
“Deathbringer.” This time he heard the voice with his ears, instead of in his mind. “I am pleased with how well you have used my gift. The young Ensign is a fine addition to my realm, as are the three followers you sent to join her.”
Devlin shivered, the blight of Haakon’s presence leeching every scrap of warmth from the room. He swallowed against the bitter taste of fear, striving to project a calm he did not feel.
“I will find those who murdered Ensign Annasdatter and see them punished,” he said. He was proud that his voice did not shake, though he knew a god would not be fooled by his show of calm.
“The Ensign was only the first. Remember my promise? You will bring death to all those around you. Even those you call friends are not safe, for they will betray you and you will be forced to kill them.”
“No.” Devlin pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “My friends will not betray me,” he insisted.
Haakon gave a mirthless chuckle. “Already they think you half-mad. What would they say if they saw you now, talking to a
shadow that no one else can see? They would try to lock you away. For your own good, of course.”
Devlin’s stomach lurched. With the cruelty that was intrinsic to his nature, Haakon had given voice to Devlin’s greatest fear.
Stephen and Didrik already suspected that something was amiss with Devlin. He had heard their whispered conversations and seen the wary glances cast his way. It would not take much more to convince them that he was mad. And then they would act. The Geas would not let him desert his duty. He would be forced to resist, drawing steel against his companions. Then Haakon’s prophecy might well come true, as Devlin killed his companions.
Or, if they managed to overpower him, his fate would be no better. It did not matter if they chose to imprison him here under the eyes of the healers, or take him back to Jorsk under guard. Any action they took would have the very result they feared, for if he were unable to fulfill his duty, then the Geas would drive Devlin mad.
“If I am imprisoned, then you have lost your sport,” Devlin replied.
“Your suffering will be ample repayment for my labors on your behalf,” Haakon said. “And do not sell yourself cheaply. Even your mere presence, witless or no, will be enough to set this city ablaze.”
The Death God’s words held the ring of truth. Chief Mychal and Governor Kollinar had both warned him as much, in their own ways. The longer the search for the sword continued, the more disturbances there would be. The cycle of violence that had begun with Annasdatter’s death would continue and grow, until no one could stop it.
“What do you want of me?” Devlin shouted.
“Death,” Haakon replied. Then, as Devlin watched, the figure slowly dissolved into nothingness, and he was once again alone.
“My lord?” a woman’s voice called.
Devlin turned to see a servingwoman standing in the open door to the study.
“Did you want something?” she asked.
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