With sinking heart he picked up the pen and began to write. He had gotten no further than the formal salutation when the study door swung open and Commander Mychal entered, followed by a woman. Grateful for the interruption, Devlin set down his pen and rose to his feet, stepping out from behind the desk to meet his visitors.
“Devlin, son of Kameron and Talaith, husband of Cerrie who once wore the colors of the peacekeepers, this is Ismenia of Windgap, whom I have long called friend,” Mychal said.
He wondered why Mychal felt the need for a formal introduction in the Caer style. Ismenia was an ordinary-looking woman, past her first youth, but there was not a strand of gray to be seen in the black hair that was braided and coiled around her head. She was dressed in a plain gray tunic and dark leggings, her only concession to vanity a silver torc worn around her neck.
“I am honored to meet one whom Mychal calls friend, and bid you welcome,” Devlin said, inclining his head in a show of respect. “This is Stephen, son of Lord Brynjolf of Esker, a singer and lore teller.”
Stephen bowed, but Ismenia ignored him, choosing instead to stare at Devlin. She squinted and tilted her head to one side as if he were a strange beast she had encountered at the menagerie. Then she abruptly straightened and turned so her attention was divided between Mychal and Devlin.
“I apologize for doubting you,” she said to Mychal. “This is worse than you described. There is not one spell here, but at least three workings of magic.”
“Who are you?” Devlin demanded.
“A student of the unseen realm,” Ismenia replied.
A wizard, in other words. He did not know what surprised him more, that Mychal knew such a person or that he had thought to bring her here. What madness had possessed him to involve a wizard in Devlin’s affairs?
“I have no need for such.” There were too many already who knew of the Geas spell and the burden he bore. “Mychal, you and this woman must leave. Now.”
Mychal looked over at Stephen, whose fair complexion darkened.
“No,” Stephen said, moving to stand between Devlin and their visitors. “I am the one who asked Commander Mychal to bring her here.”
“Then I will leave, and you three may talk to your hearts’ content,” Devlin said. His instincts screamed at him to run, to leave. He knew all too well the dangers of involving a magic user in his affairs.
He strode toward the door, but Commander Mychal blocked his way just as Stephen grabbed his shoulder from behind. Angrily, he spun around, his right hand raised in a fist.
“Release me. I will not warn you again,” Devlin said. He locked his gaze with Stephen, but his friend showed no signs of backing down. For a long moment they stood there, frozen, and Devlin wondered what would happen if he were to strike the minstrel.
“Enough of this foolishness,” Ismenia said.
Devlin turned to face her, glad to have another target for his anger. “I do not want you or your help. Begone.”
“And I have no wish to force myself on the unwilling,” Ismenia said. “But neither can I leave you here, ignorant of your peril. You have been bespelled.”
Devlin took a deep breath, reminding himself of the laws of hospitality. He had welcomed this woman as a guest, albeit under false pretenses. Yet having said the words, he could not harm her. Not while she was under this roof. All he could do was to hope to be rid of her swiftly. “You tell me nothing I do not already know. Commander Mychal has wasted your time.”
His calm words must have reassured Stephen, for he relinquished his grip on Devlin’s shoulder and came to stand beside him instead. But a quick glance showed that Mychal still blocked the door. To get past him, Devlin would have to fight. And he was not ready to do that. Not yet.
Ismenia came toward him, and Devlin fought the urge to back away. Magic of any kind made him profoundly uncomfortable, as did those who practiced it. She stopped just one pace away, and stretched out her arm, so that her hand nearly touched his chest.
“You wear an object of power under your shirt,” she said.
Devlin nodded.
“May I see it?”
“Why?”
“Indulge me. A moment of your time and I will leave you in peace. If you still wish me to do so.”
He hesitated, but reasoned what harm could it do? He would show her the ring, then trust that she was honorable enough to leave him in peace as she had promised.
And then he would take Stephen to task for his part in arranging this bit of foolishness.
The fingers of his crippled hand fumbled with the button of his collar, then reached inside to grasp the leather cord. He tugged on it, until the ring of the Chosen One was revealed.
The ring dangled on the cord, the dark stone glowing with dull red fire, as it had for the past weeks. As he had drawn nearer to the sword, the ring had begun to glow, and had grown warm to the touch. Such portents made him uneasy, so he no longer wore it on his finger.
“How long have you hidden the ring away, ignoring its message of peril?” Ismenia asked.
“What message?” Stephen asked.
“That ring is bound to you,” Ismenia said. She reached for it, but he drew it back swiftly. “It was meant to act as a symbol of your power and to warn you of danger.”
Devlin struggled to recall what Master Dreng had told him of the ring. At the time he had paid little heed to the mage’s words once he realized that the magic that fueled the Geas spell was far beyond Dreng’s understanding.
“The mage who crafted it put a spell on it to warn me of poison,” he said. It had been Dreng’s attempt at an apology of sorts, for failing to safeguard the soul stone.
“Not poison,” Ismenia declared. She frowned, her gaze unfocused as if she could see right through him. “Tell me, Chosen One. Have you ever angered a mind-sorcerer?”
Devlin took a hasty step back. “A mind-sorcerer?” His voice cracked on the last word, but for once he did not care if others sensed his fear.
“You have been thrice bespelled,” Ismenia said. “The first was a mind spell, done with your consent. The second is a minor working, bound to the ring you wear. But the third spell is a thing of evil, meant to warp the fabric of your thoughts.”
“No. That cannot be.” Dreng had sworn to him that he was protected from any such attack. Yet even as Devlin denied it, some part of him knew that she spoke the truth.
Chief Mychal cleared his throat. “This is a private matter, and so I will leave you,” he said. He gave a brief nod and left the room, unable to conceal his haste. His friendship with Ismenia was apparently not enough to overcome his distaste for the practice of magic.
“Shall I leave as well?” Stephen asked.
“No,” Devlin said. He did not want to be alone with this woman and her dark tidings.
“Shall I send a servant to bring food or drink?” Devlin asked, abruptly recalling his duties as host. Anything to delay whatever she would say next.
“Thank you but no,” Ismenia said.
He waited until Ismenia had taken her seat, then Devlin took the chair opposite hers. Stephen dragged a stool over so he sat at Devlin’s right side.
“Have you ever met a mind-sorcerer?” Ismenia asked.
“Not that I know of,” Devlin said. Though if there were a mind-sorcerer in Kingsholm, he would hardly be likely to advertise his presence. “But this is not the first time one has set a spell against me.”
“Devlin and I were attacked by an elemental creature of darkness during our return from Esker,” Stephen explained. “Master Dreng, the royal mage, said it could have been the work of a mind-sorcerer.”
Ismenia frowned. “Did this mage see the elemental?”
“No. We encountered it some distance from the city.”
“Then it may not have been an elemental after all. It could have been any sort of magical creature. A working of power, but not one requiring the talents of a mind-sorcerer,” Ismenia said.
What difference did it make whether the
being had been an elemental or some other breed of magical being? What mattered was that the creature had been sent to kill him, and only through luck had he and Stephen been able to destroy it.
“Master Dreng seemed convinced that it was an elemental,” Stephen said. “And there is more. The elemental was able to find us because a spell had been set on Devlin’s soul stone.”
“I have not heard of these soul stones,” Ismenia said.
“One gem, split in two,” Devlin explained, with a grim twist to his lips. “Half is set in this ring, and the other half is kept in the Royal Chapel in Kingsholm. The stone is tied to my soul, so it glows or fades according to my strength.”
The soul stone could also be used to track his progress, when placed on a mosaic map of the Kingdom.
He had thought the soul stone an abomination. No man’s private struggles should be set out for strangers to gawk at. It had only served to confirm his view that magic was not to be trusted.
But now he had discovered a far greater horror, as Ismenia’s next words confirmed.
“I cannot say whether it is the work of the same person, but you have indeed been touched by mind-sorcery. How long has it been since you first noticed that something was wrong? Strange dreams or perhaps an apparition that you could not explain?”
“It began Midwinter’s night,” Devlin said. “A figure appeared to me, during the ritual of remembrance. I thought it was Lord Haakon, come to mock me.”
Foolish man, you waste your time, bleating your pain to these ignorant fools. They cannot help you. No one can.
Devlin bit his lip, tasting the sharp copper of blood, and using the pain to distract him from the renewed whispers in his mind.
“So that is how it was done,” Ismenia murmured, almost to herself. She closed her eyes, and pressed the palms of her two hands together.
She was still for several moments, and then she opened her eyes.
“You must understand that what I know of mind-sorcery I have learned from books or from speaking with others who study the unseen realm. I can conjecture, but I cannot know for certain.”
“I understand,” Devlin said.
“Even an untrained mind has natural barriers against magic. To break down these barriers, a mind-sorcerer must normally be in close contact with his subject. That may be why he sent an elemental creature to attack you physically, rather than trying to cast a soul spell.”
Stephen appeared fascinated by these details. No doubt Master Dreng would have been equally fascinated had he been here. But Devlin did not want theories. He wanted answers.
“So what happened on Midwinter’s Eve?” he asked.
“During the ritual, you lower the barriers of your mind so you can make contact with those who have passed into the Dread Lord’s realm. The mind-sorcerer merely had to wait until you had started the ritual, then he attacked. Once he was able to touch your mind, he forged a link. He can hear your thoughts, and the voices you have been hearing are almost certainly thoughts he has been sending.”
He broke into a cold sweat and fought the urge to vomit. A stranger had touched his mind, feeling what Devlin was feeling, sharing his pain, his hopes, his very thoughts. It was the most horrific violation he could imagine. A rape of his soul.
Devlin swallowed convulsively. He felt Stephen’s touch on his arm and took comfort from his friend’s presence.
“Are you certain of this?” Stephen asked.
“As certain as I can be,” Ismenia said. “There are others who know more than I, though none who live in the city. I could send for them to consult with if you like.”
“No,” Devlin said. Chief Mychal had vouched for this Ismenia, but that did not mean he was prepared to trust other magic users. Any one of them could be his enemy.
“Could it have been one of our people who set the spell? The only foreigners I saw were the innkeeper and his daughter, and they were too busy to be up to mischief. And only one of our people would know when the ritual could be performed and that it would leave me open to attack.”
“Mind-sorcery draws its power from others, and is thus against the tenets of wizardry. I have never heard of one of our folk who became a mind-sorcerer. And if the sorcerer were powerful enough, he could have set the spell on you from a great distance. He could have been many leagues away from you.”
“The ritual of remembrance may not be common knowledge, but it is not secret either,” Stephen said. “I knew of it even before I met you.”
It was strange, but he felt relieved to know that his attacker was most likely not one of the Caerfolk. Easier to blame his descent into madness on his faceless enemies rather than to wonder if someone he had once known had decided to seek revenge on him through this spell.
“I will know more, once I break the spell,” Ismenia said.
“When?” Devlin asked.
“I need to prepare, but we can make the attempt tonight.”
“What of the risks?” Stephen asked. “Can you be certain that destroying the spell will not harm Devlin’s mind?”
Devlin had not thought of the risks, only of freeing himself from the invader who had taken residence in his mind.
Ismenia’s eyes flashed, and Devlin was reminded why the Caerfolk were so careful to give a wide berth to wizards and magic users. It made Chief Mychal’s apparent friendship with her all the more strange, but perhaps they had known each other as children, before she felt the call to wizardry.
Or perhaps they had been more than friends. There was a certain resemblance in the set of their eyes and the way they tilted their heads to one side when pondering.
“I will do my best, but I make no promises,” Ismenia said. “The risk to your friend is far greater if the spell is not broken.”
“I agree,” Devlin said.
Already the mind-whispers had driven him till he stood on the edge of madness. He could not endure such torment for much longer and still hope to retain ownership of his soul. He would gamble that Ismenia’s skills would be equal to the task.
“One more word of caution. You hear the voice, even now?”
“Yes,” Devlin admitted. From the corner of his eye he could see Stephen staring at him in concern.
“The sorcerer can hear your thoughts. He knows we are planning to break his link, and he will try his utmost to prevent you from going through with the ceremony. Between now and the next time we meet, you must be vigilant. Do not relax your guard, even for a moment.”
“I will watch over him,” Stephen promised.
“See that you do. Remember, he is not himself. Tie him up if you must. Do whatever is required.”
“We will,” Stephen said.
It was comforting to know that, though Devlin’s own strength might flag under the weight of his burden, his friends would protect him. Even from himself, if need be. With their help, he would be ready for whatever Ismenia had planned.
Twenty-three
ONCE THE ROYAL PALACE OF THE CAER RULERS, the army garrison was the largest structure in Alvaren, with twin towers that loomed over the city. But even here space was at a premium. Four hundred soldiers called the garrison home, along with officers’ families and servants. The garrison complex included stables for horses, a fully stocked armory, enclosed practice fields, and one of the three granaries that kept the city fed.
Underneath the central keep were a dozen cells where prisoners could be held. Unlike the gaols Didrik was familiar with, these cells were clearly meant to hold a different class of criminals. No consideration was made for their comfort, and most of the prisoners’ time was spent in darkness. They were fed once a day, and at that time a single candle stub that lasted for a half hour was provided. After that, the prisoners were plunged back into a darkness interrupted only by random inspections by their keepers.
Each cell had thick stone walls and a heavy wooden door. The individual cells were separated by storerooms or offices, making it nearly impossible for one prisoner to communicate with another. The sens
e of utter isolation was meant to break down the prisoners’ wills.
And if the isolation and harsh treatment were not enough to break a prisoner’s spirit, Didrik had no doubt that there were other places in the keep he had not been shown, places where more stringent forms of questioning could be employed.
Yesterday’s interrogation session had been fruitless, but the prisoner had been left in her cell for a full day and night to reflect upon her predicament. As per his orders, she had been awoken every half hour to ensure that she had no chance to sleep. Now it was time to see if his strategy would bear fruit.
The door to the interrogation room swung open and the prisoner stumbled into the room, propelled by a shove to her back. She raised her chained hands to cover her face, blinking in the bright light. Two privates followed her inside.
Ensign Ranvygga gestured to the heavy wooden chair in the center of the room. “Secure her,” she said.
Didrik and Ranvygga watched as the prisoner was guided into the chair. Her hands were pulled roughly from her face and secured to the arms of the chair. One private stood behind her, keeping watch, while the other knelt to secure her legs. He received a swift kick for his troubles, and his companion cuffed her in the back of her head.
“Enough,” Ranvygga ordered, before Didrik could make his own objection.
His gaze swept over the prisoner, noticing that she had a fresh bruise on one cheek. Apart from the kick, she had made no serious attempt to break free from their custody. Not that she would get far in a place filled with soldiers who would know her on sight as an escaped prisoner. Still, the fact that she did not even try to escape was a sign that the conditions were beginning to take their toll on her.
Indeed, the restraints were not truly needed. There was no real risk that she would escape, and any attack on himself or Ranvygga would fail before it was over. The chains were simply props, stage dressing to remind her of how helpless she was. Just as the interrogation room had been purposefully designed; a large open space with walls that rose to three times a man’s height, dwarfing the occupants. The prisoner was placed in the center of the room, the focus of the bright lamps that hung overhead. Against one wall there was a long mahogany table. Ranvygga sat on one side of the table and Didrik on the other, ensuring that the prisoner could only see one of them at a time.
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