Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  Devlin’s right arm began to shake with the strain of supporting his body.

  “It is not that, but—” Stephen began.

  “But nothing,” Devlin said, collapsing back on the pillows. The energy that had briefly animated him was gone. “Believe me mad instead, if that comforts you. Just go, and leave me in peace.”

  Even as they watched, Devlin’s eyes closed, and his breathing grew shallow as sleep finally claimed him.

  Stephen’s eyes met his, and Didrik wondered if his own shock was as easy to read.

  “If Haakon is truly calling Devlin’s name—”

  “No,” Didrik said. It was not true. Devlin’s tired mind had played tricks on him. Or if not a trick, it was merely another challenge for them to face. A test of their courage, or of their commitment to serve the Chosen One.

  “We will talk of this later,” he said. “For now, I want to find out what our prisoner knows. Maybe if we find out who is behind the attack, we can prove to Devlin that he was wrong.”

  And if Devlin was right—

  No. Not even in his own mind would he complete that sentence. For no man could stand against one of the Gods.

  The prisoner’s arm was splinted by the healer, then she was interrogated, first by Didrik, then by two army officers, and finally by Chief Mychal himself. Hours of questioning yielded little of value. She refused to name her accomplices, or indeed to answer any of their questions. Instead the prisoner kept repeating that though she was a member of the Children of Ynnis, she had acted alone in attacking Devlin, feeling it her duty to strike down one who had betrayed her people. Her one regret was that she had not managed to kill him.

  Didrik had attempted to reason with her, pointing out that though the attack on the Chosen One was treason and punishable by death, the sentence could be commuted by the Chosen One if she were to cooperate. The woman had laughed in his face, claiming that she looked forward to her martyrdom.

  When questioned about Ensign Annasdatter’s death, she had denied any knowledge, though she expressed admiration for whoever had committed the crime. There was no reasoning with such blind fanaticism. Didrik had turned over the interrogation to others, but they were no more successful than he had been. In the end, he gave orders that she was to be taken to the army garrison and locked in one of their cells, with only her thoughts to keep her company.

  So far they had observed the letter of the law, but as the woman’s defiance continued, Didrik found himself wondering if she would be quite so brave when faced with the possibility of torture. There was a dark part of him that very much wanted to see her bleed, and to punish her for everything that had gone wrong since they entered this cursed land.

  As the day grew to a close, he returned to Devlin’s chambers to report their lack of success. Devlin acknowledged the report with a grunt. He did not ask to see the prisoner himself, nor did he give any orders for her treatment. And though his wounds were not life-threatening, Devlin claimed he was too weary to attend the council that he himself had called for that night.

  Didrik reported this fact to the others, who took the excuse at face value. But then, neither Lord Kollinar nor Chief Mychal truly knew Devlin. The Devlin he knew would never have shirked his duties in this way. This past summer, grievously wounded during his duel with Duke Gerhard, Devlin had remained on his feet through sheer force of will, demanding justice from the King. He had stood there as his lifeblood drained onto the sands, refusing to show any sign of weakness. Only after he was assured that the traitors would be punished did Devlin finally give in to his wounds and collapse.

  It was hard to believe that the same man now let a mere scratch confine him to his bedchamber. That he showed no interest in either the search for the sword or in finding out who was behind the attack upon him.

  Only he and Stephen knew the truth. Only they knew how out of character Devlin’s behavior was. And only they had heard the hopelessness in Devlin’s voice as he confessed that the Death God was calling his name.

  And that was a secret Didrik was not willing to share with the others. He trusted them, but only to a point. Instead, as Devlin’s aide, he listened to their reports on the search for the missing sword and those who had stolen it. Neither had yielded fruit so far, but their approaches seemed sound, and he could think of nothing else to suggest.

  Though they did have one self-proclaimed rebel in their custody. To his surprise, it was Chief Mychal who suggested that a more strenuous form of interrogation might yield the answers they sought. Didrik demurred, saying that for now the Chosen One’s orders stood. They could question the woman again in the morning, but she was not to be harmed.

  They talked of the possibility of another attack, on Devlin or on those in his party, and he approved the increased security measures suggested by Chief Mychal.

  It was long past sunset when they finally agreed that there was nothing more to discuss and nothing else to be done until the next day. As he rose to his feet, Didrik felt the bruises he had taken earlier make their presence known and put his hand over his mouth to smother a yawn. A glance showed that his three companions seemed equally weary.

  Lord Kollinar rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “You’re probably right about the woman. Bruises, you know,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Traitors are always executed publicly. It will stir up enough trouble if she appears hale. But if she were to be seen bruised or injured—”

  Didrik nodded. This much he understood. “Trouble,” Didrik agreed. He had seen a city caught up in a riot. Once. He had no wish to repeat the experience.

  “Trouble for all of us,” Chief Mychal said. “But nothing my peacekeepers can’t handle, if we get fair warning.”

  It seemed Chief Mychal had no intention of letting them forget the mistake they had made by not informing him of their plans to arrest Peredur. So be it. Had Didrik been in his place, he would have done the same. Stephen wondered at Didrik’s composure. How could he sit there calmly discussing search grids and lists of witnesses to be questioned? Had he not heard Devlin’s words? Didn’t he realize the enormity of what they were faced with? Their enemy was not to be found in a house to house search, nor in the systematic examination of all those who had access to the storeroom in the Metalsmiths’ Guild.

  Then again Didrik had always been one for rules and regulations, for the discipline of service. He understood order and what it took to uphold the law. He was not a man capable of great imagination. No doubt it comforted him to pretend that Devlin was simply the commander to whom he owed his allegiance and whom he had sworn to protect with his life. Far easier to close his eyes and ignore what it meant that Devlin had been summoned by the Gods to their service, and that even now the Gods continued to touch his life and the lives of those around him.

  Though Didrik might find comfort in routine tasks, Stephen had no such luxury. He would not will himself to blindness. Devlin was in trouble, and if none could see it except Stephen, then so be it. He had saved his friend once before when all seemed hopeless. He would do so again.

  But he needed help, and so he sat patiently through their councils until Didrik called an end to the debate.

  As Chief Mychal donned his cloak and prepared to leave, Stephen followed him into the hall.

  “A moment of your time, if you would be so kind,” Stephen said.

  Chief Mychal looked at Stephen, then back into the brightly lit receiving room, where Didrik and Lord Kollinar lingered, still talking over the day’s events.

  “Walk with me,” Chief Mychal said.

  Stephen led the way down the staircase, nodding as they passed two servants about their errands. When they reached the main corridor, rather than turning left toward the main door, he turned right and opened the door into a small room that held but two chairs and a fireplace. He supposed it was normally used to house unexpected visitors until the chief of the house could determine whether or not they were welcome. For the moment it was as pri
vate a place as he could find, away from curious eyes and ears.

  Chief Mychal followed him in the room, but made no move to sit down. Now that the moment had come, Stephen’s doubts began to assail him. Was he doing the right thing? How did he know if this man could truly be trusted? Perhaps it would be better to wait and discuss this with Didrik first. After all, he had no proof of his suspicions, only a dreadful gnawing fear that there was indeed something very wrong with Devlin.

  “Now, then, boy, what is it that you had to say to me that you could not say in front of your countrymen?” Chief Mychal asked.

  “I am no boy,” Stephen snapped, angry at being dismissed so easily.

  “Then prove it. Either talk with me or let me take my leave. It has been a long day, and I have no time to waste on fools.”

  Stephen was tempted simply to spin on his heel and walk out. Instead, he took a deep breath and held on to the shreds of his temper. Devlin trusts this man, he reminded himself.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  “So I gathered,” Mychal replied.

  “Devlin is …” Stephen hesitated, wondering how to explain. “Devlin is not himself.”

  “He is not the man I knew four years ago. Were Cerrie to return, even she would not recognize what he has become.” Mychal shook his head from side to side, as if in sorrow. “He has become hard. Bitter. A stranger to us.”

  “That is not what I meant.” Though he knew there was truth in what the chief said. There were only glimpses now of the man that Devlin had once been, the gentle artist whom his friends mourned. The man Stephen knew had been shaped by tragedy, the softer parts of him burned away in white-hot grief and rage. He had finally found a reason to live, in his desire to save others, to protect them as he had not been able to protect his own family.

  Though his new calling was not one that his people would understand. They would never understand why Devlin had chosen to serve their conquerors. And Devlin was too proud, too stubborn to explain himself.

  “I saw Cerrie’s spirit,” Stephen said musingly. “On Midwinter’s Eve she came to Devlin and warned him of danger.”

  Mychal smiled. “She was a little thing, but fierce. And her long black hair was her pride.”

  He wondered what kind of fool Mychal thought him. Did he think he had so little honor that he would lie about something the Caerfolk held sacred? “Her hair was indeed black, but short and curling. And she was taller even than Devlin himself.”

  Mychal drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “Perhaps you did see her,” he conceded. “But what does that have to do with me?”

  “Cerrie warned Devlin of danger. An unexpected enemy.”

  “The Children of Ynnis.”

  “No. We already knew of them, from Commander Willemson in Kilbaran. And as for today, assassins have tried to kill Devlin before now, and never before have the Gods seen fit to warn him.”

  “So what do you think it is?”

  His mouth was dry, and he swallowed. “I think there is more going on than meets the eye. I think there is something wrong with the Geas spell. I need to find a mage who can examine Devlin and tell me the truth.”

  Chief Mychal took two steps backward until he was as far from Stephen as the tiny room would allow. “A spell?”

  Stephen nodded. “I think the Geas spell has gone wrong. Maybe the spell deteriorates over time. The legends do not say, but few of those bespelled have survived as long as Devlin. Maybe Master Dreng lacked the power to cast a lasting spell. Or it simply may be weakening because we are so far from Kingsholm. Or—”

  Chief Mychal broke into his musings. “Are you saying Devlin is ensorceled? That his wits are not his own?” Mychal’s cheeks were flushed with anger.

  Stephen stopped in midsentence. It was such a relief to speak his fears aloud, he had forgotten how little the Caerfolk knew of what it meant to be Chosen One.

  “When a candidate comes to be chosen, he swears an oath to the Gods, and a binding spell is placed upon him to ensure faithful service,” Stephen explained. “We call it the Geas spell.”

  “And Devlin consented to this abomination?”

  “Yes,” Stephen said.

  Chief Mychal turned his head away, and spat on the floor in a deliberate gesture of disrespect. “I will never understand him,” he said.

  “He does not need your understanding. He needs your help. I need to find a trustworthy mage, one who can tell me if the spell has gone awry.”

  “We have no mages as you call them,” Mychal said. “No one of our people would put such a spell on another.”

  The cold words dashed Stephen’s hopes. He had been so certain that a mage would be able to help Devlin. He had no idea what he should do now.

  “But there is a woman I know,” Chief Mychal said slowly, as if the words were being dragged out of him. “A wizard, named Ismenia. Her powers are far different than what you describe, but she is wise and may be able to help Devlin.”

  “And do you trust her?”

  “With my life,” Mychal said. “I knew her from before, you see. The gift came to her late, and even though she renounced her family as was proper, she continues to live here in Alvaren.”

  “Then I beg you, summon her swiftly,” Stephen said.

  “I will call on her tomorrow and see if she will come. But I make no promises,” Mychal said.

  “Just bring her here, and I will do the rest,” Stephen said. One way or another, if there was the slightest possibility that this woman could help Devlin, he would make certain that she had that chance. No matter what Didrik, Kollinar, or even Devlin himself had to say.

  Twenty-two

  THE MORNING AFTER BEING ATTACKED, DEVLIN awoke to find that the mind-whispers that had plagued him had gone mercifully silent. It was a relief to have the peace of his own thoughts, though he knew better than to suppose that the Death God had forgotten about him.

  He rose from his bed and examined his injuries dispassionately. The dressings would need to be changed, but neither showed any signs of wound sickness. He knew that some would call him lucky. If the woman’s aim had been a bit better, or if she had been able to strike a third blow, she might well have killed him. As it was, his injuries were merely inconvenient.

  Dressing himself was a slow affair, for his injured arm was stiff and the wound in his side made it difficult for him to bend or turn. But with effort, and more than a few muttered curses, he managed to don his uniform.

  He made his way to the ground floor and asked a servant to bring his breakfast. Stephen joined him as he ate, reporting that Lord Kollinar had already left for the garrison, and that Didrik was with the peacekeepers, supervising the latest attempt to wring information from his attacker. Devlin made noncommittal noises at the appropriate moments, feigning interest.

  Surprisingly, Stephen made no reference to Devlin’s assertion that the Death God was stalking him. It was as if the conversation had never happened. He wondered at the reason for the minstrel’s behavior. Was Stephen holding his tongue out of concern for Devlin’s injuries, waiting until Devlin had regained his strength? Or was Stephen hoping that given time Devlin would come to his senses?

  Whatever the reason, he was grateful for the reprieve. Even as the words had left his lips, he regretted his confession. It was hard enough for any man to accept that he was doomed and that the Death God had chosen him as a plaything. Even faced with this grim knowledge, Devlin still must strive to obey his sworn oath and to fulfill his duty. Balancing the two compulsions took all of his strength. He did not think he could bear to accept his friends’ solicitude. Their help, while well-meaning, could shatter the fragile balance that he had managed to achieve.

  Though not truly hungry, Devlin ate the food that had been brought, knowing he needed to rebuild his strength. Afterward, he went to Lord Kollinar’s office, where the latest reports awaited his attention. Stephen accompanied him, a silent yet watchful presence. Devlin methodically made his way through the stack of sc
rolls. The peacekeepers and army seemed determined to outdo each other in the sheer number of reports that were written. But in the end, they all bore the same message. They could find no trace of the stolen sword or of those who had taken it. Nor was there even the slightest whisper as to who was responsible for the death of Ensign Annasdatter, or even if the two events were linked. The circle of the investigation spread wider and wider as the number of those questioned steadily climbed. But so far, they had nothing to show for their efforts except a steadily growing sentiment against the Jorskian occupiers and the traitor who had joined their ranks.

  He might as well take up the inquiries himself, going from house to house, shop to shop, until he had questioned each of Alvaren’s residents personally. He had exhausted all other possible courses of action.

  Or had he? He reached for his mug of kava and took a hasty gulp. There was one avenue of inquiry he had not pursued.

  He had agreed with the others when they suggested that the sword might have been stolen simply because it belonged to him. Yet his instincts told him otherwise. The thieves had covered their tracks far too carefully. They knew what the sword was and precisely how valuable it was. And there was only one person who could have given them that knowledge. Murchadh. The man who had taken his hand in the clasp of friendship and claimed him as kin only weeks before. Had that all been a lie? Had Murchadh’s smiling face concealed a treacherous heart?

  Or had Murchadh offered friendship in good faith, only to reconsider once Devlin had left Kilbaran? Had reason taken the place of emotion as others reminded him that Devlin was no longer truly of Duncaer? Had they convinced him to betray Devlin’s quest or had he simply let the information slip? There was one way to find out. A messenger bird could be sent to Commander Willemson, ordering that Murchadh be arrested and interrogated. Once they found out whom Murchadh had told of the sword, they could then trace that person’s contacts and find his allies in Alvaren.

  Simple logic demanded that he consider all possible suspects, no matter the ties of past friendship. A dozen times Devlin had been on the verge of scribing the letter that would order Murchadh’s arrest and interrogation. Each time he had resisted, hoping against hope that there would be some other way to find the information he needed. But he had run out of both time and choices.