At Didrik’s left elbow was a pitcher with cool cider, a plate of cooked meat and a basket of freshly baked bread. The scent of the food filled the room, and he saw the prisoner lick her lips.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the pitcher of cider and filled a pewter tankard. He took a noisy gulp, then a second. Then he set the tankard back down on the table.
“Strange how it is the small things that we miss most. Things we take for granted. A hot meal, cool drink, a warm place to sleep.” Didrik’s voice was soft, as if musing aloud.
Ensign Ranvygga was silent, as they had agreed. Yesterday she had led the interrogation. Now it was his turn to see if he could succeed where she had failed.
“I can make things easier for you,” he said. He rose to his feet, still holding the tankard of cider in his hand, and took a few paces toward the prisoner. “A simple exchange to start. This tankard of cider, in exchange for your name.”
“I will never fall for your tricks,” she spat.
“Are you that ashamed of what you have done?” Didrik asked.
“I am proud of what I tried to do. My only regret is that I failed, and the traitor yet lives.”
“Then what harm is there in telling me your name?”
He took a few steps closer, so that she could see the tankard. This close he could see that her complexion was nearly gray with exhaustion, and there were deep purple circles under her eyes. But any sympathy he might have felt for her was vanquished by the memory of her attack upon Devlin.
Her eyes searched his face, then she returned to staring at the tankard. He waited a dozen heartbeats and shrugged, turning away. “If you don’t want it—”
“Muireann.”
At the quiet whisper, he paused, then turned back.
“What did you say?”
“Muireann,” she repeated.
It was but half a name, giving no indication of her family or where she had been born. Still, it was a start.
Her mouth opened as he approached, and he lifted the tankard to her lips. She swallowed greedily, three times, before he pulled the tankard away.
“More,” she demanded.
Didrik shook his head and stepped back, holding the tankard firmly out of reach. “Muireann is only half a name. What of your family or your craft?”
“The Children of Ynnis are my family,” she said.
“Then tell us their names,” Ensign Ranvygga said. “Tell us who sent you to attack the Chosen One, and you can have all the cider you can drink. Tell us who ordered the Ensign’s death and you may eat your fill.”
Didrik strove to keep his face calm, though inside he was furious at the interruption. He had begun to establish a connection with the prisoner, but at Ranvygga’s words, he could see Muireann visibly withdrawing.
“Never,” she said, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze defiantly. “You can beat me, starve me, throw me in a cell and leave me to rot. But I will never betray the cause of freedom. The Children of Ynnis will not rest until we have reclaimed our lands and the soldiers of Jorsk lay rotting in their graves.”
The moment was lost, and though Didrik spent the next hour trying every trick he knew, Muireann withstood his efforts and refused to speak another word. Finally, he conceded defeat and summoned the soldiers to return the prisoner to her cell.
He waited until Muireann had been escorted from the room before turning his wrath on Ensign Ranvygga.
“You sabotaged my efforts!”
“I was trying to help.”
“If I had wanted your help, I would have asked for it.”
He stared at the now cold food. Wasted. Just as this opportunity had been wasted, and his stomach turned in disgust.
“She was talking to me,” he said. “I got her to answer a question, which is more than any of you have done. And then you had to interrupt and the moment was lost.”
“I judged the moment as I saw fit,” Ensign Ranvygga replied. “I have experience interrogating Caer rebels.”
“But have you had any success? Or do you simply torture them until they tell you what you wish to hear?” Didrik asked.
“These things take time. Give her another day without food or rest, and we will try again this evening.”
Time was one thing they did not have. Their spirits sagged lower with each day that passed without their discovering any trace of the lost sword. Muireann was their one tangible link to the Children of Ynnis, but even if she did decide to break her silence, she might well be ignorant of its whereabouts. The best they could hope for was that she could lead them to others, who in turn would lead them to those who had taken the sword.
“Wait six hours, then see that the prisoner gets her daily rations,” Didrik instructed. Mild hunger might serve as an encouragement, but she needed to be fit to talk. “And remind her watchers that the Chosen One has ordered that she be held in accordance with the law. She is not to be tortured.”
He remembered the fresh bruise on the prisoner’s face and wondered if her clothing had concealed other bruises, inflicted during his absence.
“I take my orders from Lord Kollinar,” Ranvygga said.
“You are a soldier, and take your orders from Marshal Kollinar. And he takes his orders from the Chosen One, as General of the Army. The Chosen One has empowered me to speak with his voice. Shall I summon the governor here to confirm this?”
She shook her head. “There is no need.”
He wondered. “Remember, you will be held responsible for the prisoner’s condition. And she is not to be questioned unless Lord Kollinar, myself, or Chief Mychal is present.”
He had tried to be fair, but he did not like this Ranvygga. His feelings ran deeper than the customary dislike that members of the Guard had for those in the Royal Army. He did not trust her. He half suspected that she had deliberately sabotaged his interrogation. Not out of treachery, but out of ambition, a desire that she and she alone receive the credit for whatever information they could pry out of the prisoner. It was telling that she was an Ensign, and yet the name Ranvygga indicated that she was not from one of the noble families. It was rare to find a commoner in the officers’ ranks, and no doubt her humble origins had earned her this obscure post rather than a more prestigious assignment. Perhaps she saw this as her opportunity to distinguish herself, and earn a long-sought promotion.
Or perhaps he was starting at shadows. He was beginning to see plots everywhere. It was the fault of this cursed place, with its strange people. The sooner they found the sword and were able to leave, the better it would be. For all their sakes.
As he left Ensign Ranvygga, he could not shake his feeling of uneasiness, so he sought out Lord Kollinar. He knew Ranvygga would make her own report to her commander and wanted to make certain he saw Kollinar before Ranvygga had a chance to influence him.
The governor was not in his office. His aide suggested that he might be in the officers’ dining hall, partaking of the midday meal. Didrik was surprised to find that it was midday already, but when he sought out the officers’ dining hall, Kollinar was nowhere to be found. Helpful officers pointed him in the direction of the training yard, but Kollinar was not there either. An earnest young Ensign suggested he try the armory, which meant that he had to cross the length of the garrison and climb into the north tower. Something about the Ensign’s expression niggled at the back of Didrik’s mind. When he finally arrived at the armory, his suspicions were confirmed, for the sergeant in charge appeared quite startled at the idea that Lord Kollinar would want to visit.
He had been played for a fool. No doubt the army officers were laughing among themselves at how easy it had been to dupe one of the Kingsholm Guard. He was angry at himself for falling into their trap and disgusted with those who called themselves soldiers yet played childish pranks.
He wondered if they would have been so quick to play their games had they known the true stakes that were being fought for. Did it mean nothing to them that the Chosen One had nearly been assassinated in thei
r city?
Didrik had a very good memory for faces, as did most of the Guard. A part of him was tempted to hunt down the helpful soldiers and use his fists to teach them the error of their ways. But he had no time to waste in avenging personal slights. The soldiers might forget their duty, but he would not.
He returned to Lord Kollinar’s office and was not surprised to find that Lord Kollinar was seated at his desk, a tray with the remains of a meal at his left elbow.
“Lieutenant Didrik, I had been hoping to see you before you left,” Lord Kollinar said.
“I was hoping to speak with you as well,” Didrik said. He fixed his gaze on Kollinar’s aide. “Strange that you were nowhere to be found. Though several of your officers were quick to direct me to places where you were not.”
The aide flushed red and tugged at his collar with one finger. “Err, I—”
“Your directions to the officers’ dining hall placed it two floors lower than where I found it,” Didrik said. “But for true inventiveness I must salute your comrade who sent me from the stables all the way to the armory.”
Kollinar leaned back in his chair, and under his gaze his hapless aide seemed to shrink steadily.
“It was a mistake,” the Ensign muttered.
“A mistake,” Kollinar repeated. “Perhaps the true mistake was in giving you a position of responsibility to begin with.”
He let the Ensign sweat for a moment, then dismissed him. “Leave us. You can spend your free time thinking of reasons why I should not reassign you to lead a border patrol.”
“Yes, sir.” The Ensign saluted and left.
Suddenly weary, Didrik sat down in the chair nearest the fire.
“I apologize if you were inconvenienced,” Lord Kollinar said. “Those involved will be disciplined, I assure you. I will see to it personally.”
“There are other matters that concern me more,” Didrik said. He had made his point about the lack of discipline among Kollinar’s troops. Now it was time to hammer that point home. “The prisoner’s interrogation did not go well. She was beginning to cooperate, but then Ensign Ranvygga broke in, in defiance of my instructions.”
Lord Kollinar picked up a pen in his right hand and began slowly turning it, as if it were an object of great fascination. “Ensign Ranvygga is a dedicated officer and has successfully interrogated suspected rebels before.”
“And this time she botched it,” Didrik said. “I am no garrison soldier, but a leader of the Kingsholm Guard, with long experience of my own in questioning prisoners. I saw more prisoners as a novice guard than Ranvygga will see in a lifetime serving in the army of occupation.”
“Getting information from a cutpurse is hardly the same as questioning a rebel fanatic.”
“I have questioned my share of hardened criminals. And would-be assassins. Ranvygga had her chance yesterday, and she learned nothing. I was making progress today, and Ranvygga interfered. She was either malicious or ignorant, and neither is something we can afford.”
“And what did you find out?”
“A name.” Little enough to show for days of questioning.
Kollinar’s hands stilled and he deliberately set the pen down on the desk. “Muireann of Tannersly, a vegetable grower by trade,” he said.
“You knew her name and kept it from me?”
“Peace,” Kollinar said, holding his right hand, palm outward. “The peacekeepers identified her earlier this morning. When you came to see me earlier, I was still meeting with Tobias, Chief Mychal’s second-in-command. Apparently this woman arrived in the city a few weeks before the attack. She was lodging with a distant cousin, who claims no knowledge of what she had planned to do. The dwelling where she lived was also home to the mother of one of the peacekeepers, and that is how he was able to recognize the prisoner.”
“And the other residents are being questioned?”
“The peacekeepers are handling the matter,” Kollinar said. “From what I’ve heard she kept to herself, and had no suspicious visitors. If she made contact with other rebels, it was done somewhere else in the city.”
And so they were back to where they had started. Without Muireann’s cooperation, they were no closer to finding the Children of Ynnis than they had been before.
“I want someone other than Ranvygga in charge of the prisoner,” Didrik said. He was too tired to phrase it as a polite request. As a matter of protocol, Kollinar outranked him. He was noble born, and both governor of the province and Marshal in command of the occupying troops. But Didrik was the aide to the Chosen One, who in pursuit of his office outranked anyone in the Kingdom, with the exception of King Olafur himself. And it was Devlin’s wishes that he needed to see carried out.
“You blame her for the failure of this morning’s interrogation,” Lord Kollinar said.
“For that. As well as for the bruises on the prisoner’s face and the stiffness in her posture. The Chosen One gave strict orders about how the prisoner was to be treated, and it is incumbent upon us to see that they are obeyed.”
Kollinar nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I will assign my most trusted officer to be in charge of the prisoner’s security and ensure that my orders are understood.”
From somewhere deep inside himself, Didrik managed to dredge up words of thanks.
Kollinar continued studying him for a long moment, then looked away. “It must be difficult for you,” he said.
Didrik made a noncommittal noise.
“With your years of experience, it must be difficult to serve someone who was not trained in the arts of war. Someone who has not seen what we have seen. Someone who may be too softhearted to make the choices that need to be made.” Lord Kollinar let his words sink in. “I will wager that if you were in sole charge of the interrogation that you would not be so hasty as to rule out all possible means of wringing the truth from this prisoner.”
A part of Didrik agreed with the governor. The same part that had wanted to strangle the prisoner with his bare hands for having dared to attack his friend. But once his blood had cooled he had reconsidered. Torture was forbidden by law, and with good reason. It was too hard to separate out truth from lies, for those undergoing torture would say anything, even invent stories, just to appease their tormentors.
“I would do many things differently,” Didrik said. “No doubt that is why I am still a lieutenant in the Kingsholm Guard, and Devlin is the one the Gods called to their service.”
“Point taken,” Kollinar said, with a faint smile. Didrik wondered if this had been a test of his loyalty. Or perhaps simply of his intelligence, for only a fool would cast doubt on the judgment of the man he served.
Or more ominously, had Kollinar truly hoped to win Didrik to his side, seeking to divide his loyalties? He decided that Kollinar would bear close watching.
“I will go to the peacekeepers and hear for myself if they have any more information on this Muireann and who her friends may be. Send word to me there, or at your residence, if you have news.”
“At once,” Lord Kollinar said. “And I trust you will do the same.”
“Of course,” Didrik said. “We are allies in this.”
Yet even as he spoke the words, he wondered just how far he could trust Kollinar. At best, the conduct he had witnessed showed a troubling laxness in command. The governor might be well-equipped to handle the normal duties of his post, but it still remained to be seen if he could rise to the demands of this situation. And he would have to warn Devlin to be wary as well.
After conferring with the peacekeepers, Didrik returned to the governor’s residence. But while he had little progress to report, it seemed his companions had had a far more enlightening morning.
They had gathered in Devlin’s chambers, knowing that it was the one place where they could be assured of privacy. Even Lord Kollinar would not enter unless invited. And they most assuredly had secrets they wished to keep from the governor.
For all his skill as a minstrel, Stephen had been nearly inc
oherent as he described why he had asked Commander Mychal to find a trustworthy mage, and how she had revealed that Devlin was the subject of a magical attack. Clearly Stephen was pleased that his gamble had paid off. And relieved to discover that the Death God was not truly summoning his friend.
Didrik shared his relief. His fears for Devlin had weighed heavily on his mind, knowing that if Devlin had been marked for death that there was nothing anyone could do to save him. No mortal man could stand against a God. But a sorcerer was another matter. A sorcerer, after all, was but a man—and such a creature could be defeated.
Devlin did not seem to share their excitement. He lay half-reclining on a sofa, his face pale from fatigue and the strain of the past weeks.
“It may be the same sorcerer that tried to kill Devlin once before,” Stephen said.
“That was over a year ago,” Didrik countered. “Why haven’t we heard from him before now?”
“Master Dreng thought he might have been injured when we destroyed his creature,” Stephen said. “It may have taken him these long months to gather the strength for another attack.”
Devlin opened his eyes and pushed himself up till he was in a seated position. He cradled his right hand in his left, massaging the scarred palm with his left thumb. It was something he did when he was most weary, or when the memories of the past threatened to overwhelm him.
“I betrayed myself,” Devlin said softly. “If Ismenia is to be believed, the sorcerer knows what I am thinking. He plucked the knowledge of the sword from my brain.”
His words cast a different light on the matter. “Do you think he is allied with the Children of Ynnis? That somehow they learned of the sword from him?”
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