Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  The execution of three hostages in retaliation for Ensign Annasdatter’s death had been necessary, but it had only served to increase the people’s anger and make them even less willing to cooperate.

  All this in a city that was impossibly crowded, with a maze of twisting, narrow streets that made it difficult to patrol, let alone try to follow a suspect or carry out any kind of organized search. Especially if you were a foreigner.

  The peacekeepers had their own ways of dealing with lawbreakers and their own network of family and acquaintances that helped them discover evildoers. From what he’d heard, the system worked well enough for ordinary matters of justice. Certainly Alvaren was a well-ordered city, in spite of the overcrowding and number of impoverished residents. But in this instance, neither law-abiding citizen nor lawless denizen of the back alleys was prepared to betray one of his own to their Jorskian overlords.

  “This is my fault,” Stephen said in a low voice.

  Didrik looked up, surprised at Stephen’s presence. Devlin was keeping the minstrel at arm’s length these days. He allowed Stephen’s voice in their private councils, but had not permitted him to witness any of the interrogations, nor to accompany the soldiers on their searches. He wondered where Stephen had spent these last hours, and how long he had been cooling his heels waiting for news.

  “I should have known it was too good to be true. Why should I be the one to find what everyone else had missed? But I didn’t stop to think.”

  “The same could have happened to any of us,” Didrik said. Though that was not strictly true. Stephen had been the only one of them to go off on his own, hoping to pick up gossip. No doubt he had been spotted once too often, and the rebels had decided to make use of him. “Kollinar’s soldier was duped as well. If you had not been in the tavern, they would have found another way to pass this rumor on to us. We knew the information might prove false, but still we could not ignore it.”

  They should have consulted with Commander Mychal. But it was always easier to make correct judgments after the fact. Knowing what he knew then, excluding the peacekeepers had been an act of prudence. “We know better now. We will not make the same mistake the next time.”

  “If there is a next time. How much longer do you think Devlin can endure? Each day that passes saps the strength from him.”

  There was truth in Stephen’s words, but it was a truth Didrik did not want to hear. “Devlin will endure as he must. As will we.”

  “We have to find the sword. We must,” Stephen muttered.

  “And we will,” Didrik said. “We will find the sword and be back in Kingsholm in time for the first council of spring.”

  This he had to believe. He would not let himself be defeated by doubts. Devlin had triumphed over far greater challenges. With or without the sword he was still the Chosen One, the man picked by the Gods to defend Jorsk in this time of crisis. He would prevail. He had to.

  Didrik folded his arms and leaned his back against the corridor wall, a sloppy pose that would have earned him a tongue lashing from Captain Drakken had she seen him. But he could not bring himself to care. He was not on guard duty, and as the morning wore on his body reminded him that it had been a full day and night since he had last slept. After a moment’s consideration, Stephen mirrored his stance, leaning on the opposite wall of the corridor.

  Didrik let his mind drift. Some time later, the door to Lord Kollinar’s office opened, and he straightened abruptly as Peredur Trucha emerged, leaning on the arm of his escort. Two soldiers followed, carrying the chests of documents. He watched as the procession disappeared down the corridor, toward the main door.

  There was no sign of Devlin, so after a moment he walked over to the still-open door and looked inside. Lord Kollinar sat at his desk, scribbling on parchment. Devlin stood at the window, staring out at the city revealed below.

  Didrik cleared his throat. Kollinar looked up, but Devlin remained oblivious.

  “Chosen One?” There was no response. He wondered if Devlin had fallen into another one of his strange fits. “Devlin?” He called in a louder voice.

  Lord Kollinar’s eyebrows went up at the familiarity of the address, but Devlin’s head turned.

  Didrik was shocked by what the daylight revealed. Devlin appeared to have aged years in mere hours, and his eyes were sunken into his face.

  “What are your orders?” Didrik asked.

  “We have caused enough harm for one day,” Devlin said. “Chief Mychal is furious at our blunder, but he has agreed to meet with us this evening to discuss our next course of action.”

  “Why not now?” If he truly wished to help them, why make Devlin wait for his advice? Was this simply Mychal’s way of showing his displeasure for not having been consulted earlier?

  “Because he must first undo the damage we have done,” Devlin said, a bitter twist to his expression. “He fears restlessness in the poorer quarters and has gone to organize extra patrols.”

  “Does he think there will be trouble?” Reason said that the Caerfolk should understand that a mistake had been made, but that Peredur had been treated with all courtesy and released unharmed. But reason and the Caerfolk seemed to have little to do with one another, and who knew what might provoke these strange people to riot?

  “A precaution, no more,” Devlin said. “This time, at least, I thought it best to heed his advice.”

  Didrik felt the sting of the rebuke, though he knew Devlin held no one but himself to blame.

  Lord Kollinar chose to remain behind, saying that he wished to comb through the reports from his troops one more time in the hope of uncovering something they had missed.

  A small crowd had gathered outside the garrison, and they jeered as Devlin came through the gate, followed by Didrik and Stephen. His eyes swept the crowd, looking for any threat, but there were no signs of weapons, and the people seemed content merely to hurl insults instead of objects. Fearnym was among their favorites. He had learned from Stephen that it meant traitor.

  Two soldiers led the way, and four followed behind, keeping Devlin in a protective square. Didrik kept his own hand on his sword and wished that he had thought to warn Stephen to bring a weapon. The minstrel had worn a sword during their journey, but once they reached Alvaren he had set it aside, to play the part of innocent traveler. But his guise had already been penetrated, and now that he had been seen with Devlin, he could no longer hope for the safety of anonymity. Didrik would have to warn Stephen that he could no longer wander the streets of Alvaren unarmed.

  They turned a corner and began the steep climb that led to the governor’s residence. Like the garrison, it was situated on top of one of the many hills that made up the city. As the residence came into view, Didrik allowed himself a sigh of relief. Except for the crowd outside the garrison, the streets had been unusually quiet, and he was glad to see that his worries had proven unfounded.

  The last stretch was the steepest, and he felt the familiar burn in his calves. Coming down the street toward them was a woman pushing a handcart, which was half-filled with winter roots packed in straw. No doubt she had just completed her delivery to the residence, and he felt a moment’s sympathy for the labor required to push a heavy load up the steep hill. The cart rattled and bounced on the cobblestones, and it seemed all she could do to hold it in check.

  She smiled at the soldiers, and wished them a cheerful good day. Then she caught sight of the Chosen One and stumbled. Trying to catch her balance, she leaned heavily on the cart handles, and the cart tipped on its side, spilling its burden into the street.

  The soldiers in the lead scattered, trying to avoid the rolling roots. Devlin picked his way among them and went over to her.

  “What have I done?” she exclaimed. Her eyes swept over the street, watching as some of the roots wobbled to a halt in the gutter while the rest continued to bounce and roll down the street.

  Behind him, he heard one of their escort laugh at the woman’s predicament.

  The vegetab
le woman tucked her arms under her cloak as if she were cold.

  “An accident,” Devlin said. He stepped in front of her and reached down, putting his hands on the sides of the cart, preparing to lift it upright.

  Didrik glanced around, but all seemed calm. Stephen was gathering some of the fallen vegetables, collecting them into his cloak. The sole female soldier was helping him, while her counterparts watched as if they were at a play.

  As he turned back to face Devlin, he caught a glimpse of silver in the woman’s hand. Time seemed to freeze in that instant.

  “Devlin! Knife,” he shouted, even as he leapt forward.

  Devlin began to turn, slowly, as if there were all the time in the world. The woman’s dagger slashed at his side, tangling in his cloak. As Devlin turned to face her, she drew her arm back for another blow.

  From the corner of his eyes Didrik saw a soldier drawing his sword, but the man was too far away to reach the woman before she struck again. As he rushed toward them, he waited for Devlin to draw his own weapon, or for the flick of a wrist that would place a throwing knife in his hand. But to his horror, Devlin made no move to arm himself. He did not even try to evade the woman’s blade. Instead he stood there, his arms hanging at his sides, his face strangely peaceful as he waited for the killing blow.

  Didrik launched himself into the air, crashing into the woman’s left side and knocking her to the ground. There was a sharp crack and she screamed as her right arm took the brunt of their fall. The dagger tumbled from her grasp and lay on the street, the once silver blade now covered in bright blood.

  He feared he had been too late.

  “General! Are you injured?” the Ensign called.

  Didrik looked up, and saw that Devlin was still standing. He appeared oblivious to the blood running down his left arm. His eyes still held that blank gaze, as if he saw something the others did not. He waited for Devlin to take charge of the situation, but the Chosen One was either trapped in some private hell or his injuries were worse than first appeared. Either possibility was enough to make his blood run cold.

  “You. Come here,” Didrik caught the eye of the nearest soldier. “Take charge of this prisoner.”

  Didrik rose to his feet, then the soldier helped the attacker up. Her face was sullen and her eyes dark with hate as she spat in Devlin’s direction.

  “Show some respect,” the soldier said, cuffing her head with the back of his sword. The woman reeled.

  “Enough,” Didrik said. “We need her alive to be questioned. Take her inside and confine her to the servants’ quarters. Keep watch on her so she does not injure herself. We will send the healer to tend her after he has seen to the Chosen One.”

  “Yes, sir.” The ensign saluted, seemingly grateful that someone had taken charge.

  Didrik was angry as he realized that he did not even know the ensign’s name. And yet he had entrusted Devlin’s life to these soldiers without bothering to learn either their names or their skills. In Kingsholm this never would have happened. Those who guarded Devlin had been personally hand-picked by either himself or Captain Drakken. But he had grown careless, and Devlin had nearly paid the ultimate price.

  Shame swept over him as he watched Stephen fold his cloak and press it against Devlin’s side. “Devlin, you need to leave the street. It is only a scratch, but you need to get this bound up. And we do not know if the woman was acting alone.” Stephen’s voice was soft and reassuring, though his hand shook slightly as he looked down at the bloody wound.

  Devlin shook his head, then seemed to come to himself. His eyes lost their glazed stare as he took in the scene with the fallen cart, the bloody dagger, and the prisoner whose eyes spit hate.

  “Of course,” he said. Then he allowed Stephen to guide him up the street. Two of the soldiers held the prisoner between them, while the remaining four formed a wall of living flesh around Devlin, as they should have done from the start. Didrik followed, with drawn sword in hand. He would not fail Devlin a second time.

  Twenty-one

  DEVLIN’S WOUNDS PROVED LESS SERIOUS THAN Didrik had feared. There was a long shallow slash on his left arm, which had bled messily but caused no lasting damage. And a stab wound on his left side, which looked nasty, but—the healer assured him—the dagger had merely glanced off a rib rather than penetrating a vital organ—well within the skill of the novice healer who was assigned to Lord Kollinar’s household. It took only a few minutes for the healer to clean Devlin’s wounds and stitch them closed. And then he was sent to tend their prisoner.

  They had been lucky. Very lucky. Not even a healer of the first rank could save a man who had been knifed through the heart. And the woman had had two chances to strike at Devlin unopposed. Her first thrust had gone wide, but if her second blow had been just a finger’s-breadth higher …

  It did not bear thinking about. And yet he must.

  Didrik waited until the healer had left, then dismissed the chamberman and shut the door behind him.

  Devlin lay in his bed, propped up by pillows in a half-reclining position. He appeared diminished, dwarfed by the enormous bed, his habitual energy replaced by a terrifying stillness. His eyes were dull, and his normally ruddy complexion was now nearly a match for the bleached-linen sheets. It was as if his life force had drained out of him, and Didrik fought the urge to send for the healer to return.

  “What happened?” Didrik asked.

  “I was taken by surprise,” Devlin replied. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows as if preparing to rest.

  But Didrik was not about to be brushed off. For too long he had followed orders and let Devlin go his own way. Now he was going to demand answers. “What happened out there? Why didn’t you defend yourself?”

  Devlin sighed and opened his eyes. “I was helping her, not expecting an attack. And what need have I to worry when I had my own personal guard?”

  A guard that had failed him. The soldiers had been negligent, but it was on Didrik’s shoulders that the true blame fell. He was the one who had sworn to defend Devlin with his life. The woman should never have gotten close enough to strike even a single blow.

  If Captain Drakken ever heard of this debacle, he would be stripped of his rank in a heartbeat.

  “It was my fault—” Didrik began.

  “No,” Stephen said firmly.

  Both men turned to face Stephen. “There is blame enough to go around. And shame on my head, for walking at your side without a blade of my own. But we will not let you turn the talk to our failings in order to distract us.”

  So Stephen had seen what Didrik had not. Devlin had been trying to focus Didrik’s thoughts on his own failures and away from Devlin’s own inexplicable behavior. A tactic that had nearly worked.

  “You heard my warning, but made no attempt to draw your sword. Nor even one of your knives,” Didrik pointed out.

  That worried him most of all. True the woman had been so close that there might not have been time for Devlin to draw his sword and use it effectively—especially since his back had been to the fallen cart, blocking off any chance of a tactical retreat. At the time, he had thought Devlin might not have had his knives with him, but when Devlin’s shirt had been removed, they had seen that he wore the familiar throwing knives strapped to his forearms. On his left arm, the harness was bloody and two of the straps had been sliced through by his attacker’s blade. But there was no reason why he could not have used the other one. Even with his crippled hand, Devlin could still release the blade and let it fly with a speed that most envied, as Didrik knew all too well. And though the knife blade was not as long as a dagger, it would have been better than no blade at all.

  “You did not even try to defend yourself,” he repeated.

  Devlin turned his head so that he did not have to meet his friends’ eyes, but he said nothing.

  Didrik clenched his fists as he felt the frustration rise within him. He fought the urge to try and shake some sense into this stubborn man.

>   “You were going to stand there and let her kill you. Do you want to die that badly?” Stephen’s voice trembled with anger. Or fear.

  “When did it ever matter what I wanted?” Devlin asked softly.

  Didrik opened his mouth but Stephen silenced him with a gesture and they waited for Devlin to elaborate.

  Devlin’s voice was soft, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “I heard the Dread Lord calling my name. There was no sense in fighting his summons. You cannot outrun your fate.” He ran the fingers of his maimed hand along the bandage that covered the wound on his chest. “I do not understand why Haakon changed his mind. He must be furious that his servant failed at her task, but I have no doubt that he will send another.”

  Didrik shivered. What did one say to a man who thought the Death God had summoned him? If it were any other man, he would curse him as a superstitious fool. But this was the Chosen One, who had been God-touched when he was called to their service. Anything was possible.

  “When did Haakon speak to you?” Stephen asked.

  “He has been whispering to me for weeks now.”

  “Since Remembrance Day,” Stephen said.

  “I saw him then. He came to me, taunted me, saying that soon I would be his. I thought to fight him, but now I realize such resistance is futile.”

  “I do not believe this,” Didrik said.

  “Nor do I,” Stephen added.

  Devlin opened his eyes wide and leaned on one elbow, pushing himself upright. “You believe in the Gods when it suits your purposes,” he said, with a flash of anger. “You tell me that the Gods called me to serve as Chosen One. That the son of the Forge God crafted this cursed sword that I now seek. That Kanjti, the God of luck, has blessed my service. But now that Haakon calls my name, now you no longer believe in the Gods?”