Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  “I do not believe matters are as grave as you paint them.”

  “So speaks a man who was only a hairbreadth away from an armed uprising that would have destroyed this very city,” Devlin said.

  Kollinar flushed. “I would never have let it come to that.”

  Such arrogance was incredible. “It still might. The peacekeepers will be on their guard, but you must be as well. Daffyd’s paymaster is still out there. He may have failed this time, but that does not mean he has given up. Until we have achieved a decisive victory, none of us can rest.”

  “Then I must hope that you are able to fulfill your task and defeat this unseen enemy of ours,” Kollinar said.

  It was impossible to tell from his expression whether he was in earnest or mocking Devlin’s concerns.

  “I will do my duty and trust that you will do yours,” Devlin said.

  “I will obey my orders,” Kollinar said.

  He had done what he could. Kollinar had his orders. And he was not a stupid man. He would do his best to ensure that Duncaer remained quiet and that Devlin had no reason to ask the King to replace the governor. It was the best he could hope for, for the present.

  But Devlin promised himself that when the crisis was over he would revisit the question of who should govern Duncaer and see if he could find someone who would take the time to learn about the people he governed. Someone flexible enough to respond to new challenges, whatever form they took.

  “I thank you for your assistance in retrieving the sword. I will be sure to mention your helpfulness to the King when I return to Kingsholm,” Devlin said.

  “I am pleased that I have been of service,” Lord Kollinar said. “I wish you safe journey and look forward to hearing of your future successes.”

  No doubt he looked forward to getting rid of the troublesome Chosen One, who had so disordered his existence and stirred up the Caerfolk. With Devlin gone, the governor hoped that life in Duncaer would return to its usual ordered paths. For all their sakes, Devlin hoped for the same.

  Devlin hastily swallowed the last of his kava and handed the mug to a servant, who handed him his cloak. He shrugged it on and fastened the brooch that held the neck closed.

  His right hand dropped down and briefly touched the scabbard that held the Sword of Light. It felt good to be leaving this place. True there were weeks of hard travel ahead of him, and he had no illusions that his return would put an end to all his difficulties. There would be nasty political battles to be fought on the council and perhaps even uglier battles on the field. But regardless of what awaited him, Jorsk was where his duty lay. His visit to Duncaer had shown him that much. For it had been a visit, not a homecoming. There was a part of him that would always belong to Duncaer, but Devlin was the Chosen One. He had grown beyond merely caring for his own people. Now his responsibilities lay beyond those he called kin. Now he had an entire Kingdom to protect, and Duncaer was just one small piece of it—though it would always hold a special place in his heart.

  He glanced over at Stephen, who grinned at him. Stephen had his own reasons for being glad to leave.

  The main door swung open, and Didrik entered.

  “Devlin, the ponies are here. Along with our escort,” Didrik said.

  Devlin turned to Lord Kollinar, who had risen at this early hour to bid them farewell. The governor had offered Devlin an escort, but Devlin had refused.

  “I gave no such orders,” Kollinar said quickly.

  “Come and see for yourself,” Didrik said.

  Curious, Devlin made his way through the open door, then stopped on the steps. Grooms from the army held the leads of three saddled ponies and one laden with their baggage. Next to them were seven mounted soldiers.

  Devlin blinked as he realized that they were not soldiers, for they wore off-white woolen cloaks and carried transverse bows slung across their backs. Peacekeepers.

  As he descended the stairs, their leader dismounted. When she tossed back her hood, he recognized Saskia’s features.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Devlin asked. Had they come to wish him farewell? Or was there some new threat?

  Saskia drew herself to attention and stomped the heel of her right foot in salute.

  “Lord Devlin. I am in charge of your escort,” Saskia said.

  “And it takes seven of you to see me safely to the city gates?” he asked.

  They must be expecting a small riot at the very least.

  “My orders are to see you safe till the Kenwye River,” she said, naming the river that marked the border between Duncaer and Jorsk.

  He wondered what had prompted Chief Mychal to order this escort. By any measure it was a generous gesture, for the peacekeepers could ill afford to lose the services of seven of their own for the length of time it would take for them to journey to the border and return. But it was generosity he did not need.

  “Tell Chief Mychal I thank him for the gesture, but I need no escort. My friends and I will be safe enough on our own,” Devlin said.

  “No,” Saskia said.

  “You do not say ‘no’ to the Chosen One,” Kollinar said, coming to stand behind Devlin.

  Saskia grinned and shook her head. “I am not speaking to the Chosen One,” she replied. “Devlin of Duncaer has shown himself a man of honor and courage. The peacekeepers have declared him kin, and it is our right to protect our family. Even if they do not wish it.”

  He felt a lump in his throat and blinked his eyes rapidly, chasing away what felt suspiciously like tears. “You honor me beyond all measure,” he said, with only a slight hitch in his voice. “But I say again, I do not need an escort.”

  “And how do you propose to stop us? You can hardly order the army to arrest us, not after we have claimed you as kin,” she said.

  He had been neatly boxed into a corner.

  “Devlin, the ponies are growing cold standing here, as am I,” Didrik said. “We can discuss this as we ride.”

  He should have known that Didrik would take Saskia’s part in any argument. The two of them had seemed quite friendly, and Didrik, ever mindful of his responsibilities, would be glad to have someone he trusted to help guard the Chosen One.

  They mounted their horses and rode off, the peacekeepers falling in behind him. As they passed through the northern gate, he murmured a private farewell to Alvaren and the friends he was leaving behind. Devlin did not know what dangers he would face when he finally reached Jorsk. But no matter what they were, with the strength of his friends and kin behind him, he knew he would be equal to any challenge.

  About the Author

  PATRICIA BRAY inherited her love of books from her parents, both of whom were fine storytellers in the Irish tradition. She has always enjoyed spinning tales, and turned to writing as a chance to share her stories with a wider audience. Patricia holds a master’s degree in Information Technology, and combines her writing with a full-time career as an I/T Project Manager. She resides in upstate New York, where she is currently at work on the next volume in The Sword of Change series. For more information on her books visit her Web site at www.sff.net/people/patriciabray.

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  The Sword of Change

  Devlin’s Justice

  Coming in summer 2004

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  KING OLAFUR SURREPTITIOUSLY RUBBED HIS DAMP palms against the sleeves of his silken robe. A lesser man might have shown his impatience by fidgeting, or given in to the urge to pace, but Olafur was beyond such temptations. The blood of great rulers flowed in his veins. Thorvald, his father, had conquered Duncaer and expanded the reach of the empire from sea to sea. Olaven, his grandsire, had brought glory to Jorsk as the hub of a trading empire. And his great-grandsire was King Axel, whose brilliant diplomacy had enabled him to forge an alliance with Emperor Jeoffroi of Selvarat, after two hundred years of enmity between their peoples. King Axel’s skill at diplomacy had been equaled b
y his prowess as a war leader, for the combined might of Selvarat and Jorsk had crushed the Nerikaat alliance that had threatened both their realms.

  His forebearers had left him a mighty kingdom, along with the responsibility to preserve it. Since his father’s death, Olafur had done what he could, in the face of nearly insurmountable odds. Even Axel had faced only one enemy—and the Nerikaat alliance, for all their viciousness, had been an honorable foe who attacked openly. By contrast Olafur had been fighting a series of faceless enemies who melted away as soon as they were confronted. Border raiders, pirates, and internal unrest had bedeviled him, along with crop failures, plagues, and a host of monsters that had claimed the lives of the Chosen Ones with predictable regularity.

  Olafur knew that no other man could have held the kingdom together for so long. But even he could only do so much. Help must be had, if the kingdom was to survive. It was time to call upon the ancient alliance once more, and to ask the Selvarats to honor their promises of friendship and mutual aid.

  His eyes swept the receiving room, ensuring that all was in readiness. On his left side stood Lady Ingeleth, the leader of the royal council. Ranged beside her were a half-dozen high-ranking nobles, carefully chosen so that each region had a representative. If this had been a formal reception in the great throne room, his entire court would have been in attendance. But a mere ambassador did not rate such an honor, regardless of the importance of his mission.

  Standing on his right side was Marshall Erild Olvarrson, who now led the royal army in the absence of the Chosen One. While the marshal would never inspire the strong feelings of devotion that Devlin invoked in his followers, his loyalty to the throne was unquestioned. As was his obedience.

  And while no one could question the Chosen One’s loyalty to his oaths, Devlin continued to see matters in the most simplistic terms. He had yet to learn the value of political compromise. It was for the best that Devlin’s journey to Duncaer had taken longer than expected. His presence here would needlessly complicate matters.

  Not to mention that it would give Olafur great pleasure to be the one who ensured the security of his kingdom. He, and he alone, would be hailed as the savior of his people. Devlin’s heroics and his strange ideas about the place of the common people would be forgotten.

  Once the kingdom had returned to normalcy, Olafur would see about making other changes in his court. Devlin had served ably as Chosen One, and such he would remain until his inevitable death. But it might be time to appoint another as general of the army. Olvarrson, perhaps, or another scion of a noble family who owed him a favor.

  But those were considerations for another day. Now he must focus all his energies on his meeting with the ambassador and the negotiations that would take place in the days to come. Only in his private thoughts would he admit how relieved he had been when word was brought that Count Magaharan and his party had arrived in the city. He had expected them some time before, the ice on the river Kalla having been clear for nearly a month. But it would not do to give any hint of his impatience, so in a show of politeness, Olafur had given instructions that they be welcomed and shown to their quarters so they could refresh themselves after their long journey.

  Having given them a chance to bathe and dress in their court finery, he could welcome his guests. A nervous man might have resorted to a formal diplomatic reception, trying to overawe his visitors. But Olafur was too subtle for such tactics. He did not need to wear a heavy crown or be seated upon the royal throne in order to demonstrate his power. Instead he could greet the ambassador as a friend, setting the tone for the discussions to come. He would treat him as an equal, not as a beggar. Misfortune might have plagued Jorsk in these last years, but he was still ruler of a powerful kingdom. The aid he sought had been paid for tenfold by the blood Axel’s forces had shed on behalf of the common alliance.

  Indeed the last letter he had received from Empress Thania had been a carefully worded assurance that she was prepared to assist Jorsk in defending itself against the foreign aggressors. Now with the return of her ambassador, he could negotiate on what form the aid should take. Devlin, along with the barons of the coastal provinces, insisted troops were needed to stave off a possible invasion. He argued that last year’s landings in Korinth had been but a feint, and that their enemies would strike Korinth in force before the summer was over.

  A few of the army officers shared Devlin’s views, but Olafur himself was not convinced that they faced a land invasion. In his opinion the sea raiders from the Green Isles were as much a threat as any possible invasion. The raiders destroyed coastal villages, but they also wreaked havoc on shipping, which was the lifeblood of the kingdom. A few well armed ships from the Selvarat navy might well be worth more than a regiment of soldiers.

  He wondered just how generous Thania was prepared to be. His earlier requests had fallen on deaf ears, but it seemed last summer’s aborted landing in Korinth and the events surrounding Duke Gerhard’s execution, had convinced her that Jorsk was indeed in need of assistance. It chafed to be put in the position of supplicant. He reminded himself that the aid he asked for was no more than his rightful due, promised by long-standing treaties and paid for by years of mutual alliance. If Selvarat had been the one to fall into danger, he himself would do no less.

  But he knew better than to suppose that the help would come without a price. Treaty or no, there was always a cost. He would have to rely upon his own cunning and skill at diplomacy to ensure that the price of salvation did not beggar his kingdom.

  His musings were cut short as two guards swung open the doors, and then clicked their heels and bowed their heads in respect.

  Count Magaharan was the first to enter. Tall and lean, even in his brightly colored court robes, he had an ascetic look more suited to a scholar than a veteran courtier. The count had been Selvarat’s ambassador to Jorsk for the past two years, and he appeared completely at ease as he strode into the receiving room.

  Following Count Magaharan was his aide Jenna, a young woman who called herself a commoner, though rumor claimed she was a bastard offspring of the royal house. Behind her were two men whom he immediately dismissed as minor functionaries by the plainness of their dress.

  Just as the guards were getting ready to close the doors, a man stepped through, trailing so far behind the others that it was not immediately clear that he was a member of the ambassador’s party. His presence seemed almost an afterthought.

  Or perhaps he had deliberately chosen to make an unconventional entrance. Olafur’s eyes narrowed as he studied the newcomer. The man was plainly dressed. His court robe showed only a narrow band of silver brocade, but he carried himself with utter confidence. And as he approached the others, Olafur noticed that the count’s aide stepped aside so the newcomer could take her place.

  The ambassador bowed deeply, extending his right hand in a flourishing sweep before him. His companions followed suit.

  “Count Magaharan, it is a pleasure to welcome you and your companions, and to offer you the hospitality of my court.”

  The ambassador drew himself erect. “On behalf of myself, and in the name of the Empress Thania, whom I have the honor to serve, I thank you for your courtesy. The empress sends her greetings to her friend Olafur of Jorsk, along with her wishes for your continued health and the prosperity of your kingdom.”

  “Empress Thania is gracious indeed, and we count ourselves fortunate in her friendship,” Olafur replied.

  “May I present my companions? You already know my aide Jenna, and this is Vachel of the house of Burrel, and Guy from the house of Saltair.”

  As they were named, Vachel and Guy each stepped forward a pace and made their bows, which Olafur acknowledged with a polite nod. Burrel and Saltair were mid-rank houses in Selvarat, and this confirmed his impression that the two were mere advisors. Worth keeping an eye on, but they would defer to Magaharan in all matters of importance.

  “And this, your majesty, is Karel of Maurant.”

  �
��Your majesty,” the late arrival said, with a deep bow, and an even more elaborate hand flourish than Magaharan had made. His manners showed that he had traveled little outside his own land, for while this might be the fashion in Selvarat, here such a display might be taken as mockery.

  New to diplomacy he might be, but this man was not one to be taken lightly. Maurant was not just any noble house, it was the house of Prince Lenexa, the royal consort of Empress Thania. And while he could not quite remember the intricacies of the imperial family tree, it would be wise to err on the side of caution. Simply because no title had been claimed did not mean that this Karel was without rank.

  “Lord Karel, I welcome you to my court,” Olafur said. “I would make known to you my chief councilor, Lady Ingeleth, and Marshal Olvarrson of the Royal Army.”

  Karel acknowledged the introductions with studious politeness. As Lady Ingeleth introduced the remaining Jorskian nobles to the ambassador’s party, King Olafur took the opportunity to study their visitors. He thought he saw a certain resemblance between Karel and Jenna, in the shape of their noses and their unusually small ears, which gave further credence to his belief that Jenna was a member of the royal family.

  Olafur had been disappointed when his equerry had reported that there was no senior military officer among the ambassador’s party. If the empress intended to honor the treaty, then surely she would have sent along a general or a marshal at the very least, someone who could discuss the disposition of the Selvarat forces and how they could best aid in the defense of Jorsk. But perhaps his disappointment had been premature. Sending a member of the royal family, however distant his connection to the prince, must be taken as a sign of favor.

  But whatever their intentions were, he would have to wait. He knew better than to expect that Count Magaharan would immediately reveal the messages he had been entrusted with. There were certain rituals to be observed. And it would not do to give the impression of desperation. Need, yes, but desperation would be taken as a sign of weakness and exploited accordingly.