A simple, reasonable explanation. Ordinarily she would have thought no more of it. Except for the fact that the mix-up had occurred on the night she believed Devlin to have entered the city. So had it been an honest mistake? Or was Ansgar playing a deeper game?
Her suspicions were enough to make her fear for the future of Jorsk, and of the people she served. But that was all she had so far. Suspicions and coincidences. She needed tangible evidence if she was to back up her claims.
It was no light thing to accuse a king of murder.
“I do not believe Devlin has been killed,” Stephen said. It was at least the third time he had made that claim. “Not until you bring me proof. Show me his body and that of Saskia. Only then will I believe.”
“Saskia?”
“A peacekeeper from Duncaer,” Didrik explained. “She led the unit that escorted Devlin to the border of Jorsk, and when her troop turned back, she insisted on making the rest of the journey. She was a fierce fighter, and she vowed to guard Devlin with her life, which is why Stephen stayed behind with me.”
His eyes were haunted, and she knew he was wondering if matters would have turned out differently if he had accompanied Devlin instead of entrusting his safety to others. Much the same thoughts had run through her mind. If she had been on duty the night Devlin returned, if she had been at the gate to greet him, would Olafur have still dared have him killed? Would she have sensed the trap in time to protect him? Or would she have become merely another of those who disappeared?
“This Saskia, can you describe her?” she asked.
Didrik nodded. “Tall, perhaps two fingers taller than I, with a wiry build. Short black hair, close-cropped, and blue eyes.”
Damn.
“A body matching that description was pulled from the river two days after Devlin’s return. She’d been knifed and the body stripped, so we took it as a robbery. None of the Caerfolk seemed to know her, but at the time I suspected they were simply protecting their own.”
“Was there a scar on her right thigh? A healed slash from a sword, about two hand spans in length?” Didrik asked.
She nodded.
Didrik’s shoulders slumped. “Then that was her,” he said.
“This doesn’t prove Devlin is dead,” Stephen said. “It could have been Saskia’s blood that was found on the chamber floor.”
On the contrary, Saskia’s death seemed proof that Drakken was right. There was no reason to kill Devlin’s escort, unless it was to prevent her from bearing witness against the conspirators.
“We need to find Baron Martell’s men. The commander called himself Sundgren. Pers Sundgren,” Didrik said. “Find him, and we’ll find the truth of what happened when Devlin and Saskia arrived in Kingsholm.”
“Would you recognize him by sight?”
“I would,” Stephen said.
“Then it is you we must protect. Both of you. The council has given orders that you two are to be brought in for questioning. If you are taken, it would be far too easy for you to disappear.”
Once she would have sworn that she knew everything that went on in the palace, from the top of the battlements to the deepest cellars. Now she knew better. It was quite possible that Stephen and Didrik could be arrested by guards acting on secret orders, and she would be none the wiser.
Last week her search for Devlin had taken her to the cellars that ran below the oldest part of the palace, where the old kings had once kept their enemies in cramped cells far from the eyes and ears of the court. The cells had not been used in living memory, so it was no surprise to find them empty. But it was a surprise to find that the rusting lock had recently been replaced, and there were fresh torches in the wall sconces, ready to be lit.
The King was preparing, but for what she did not know.
“But what should we do? We cannot hide here for long. And I will not stand idly by,” Didrik said.
“You should be safe for a few days, at least. Let me try to find what happened to Martell’s armsmen. And I will speak to Solveig and Rikard, see what they advise. For now, you can help most by staying out of sight.”
She rose to her feet, conscious that she had already lingered longer than she intended.
“But wait,” Stephen protested.
“I cannot. I have stayed too long already. I cannot afford to raise suspicions. Not now.”
It was growing late and she had yet to visit the healers’ hall. Just in case Ansgar checked on her story.
Stephen picked up the nearly flat waterskin and shook it thoughtfully, but heard only the faintest sloshing sound. They would need more water soon. Removing the cap, he took a few mouthfuls, then offered it to Didrik.
“Water?” he prompted, when Didrik made no move to take it.
Didrik shook his head. Except for that tiny movement, he might have been a statue. Or a corpse.
Since Captain Drakken had left, Didrik had neither moved nor spoken. Stephen had tried to speak with him but grew tired of talking to the empty air.
Stephen knew that Didrik was grieving over the news of Saskia’s death. The two of them had grown close during the journey. Closer than Stephen had realized at the time, for how else had Didrik been able to describe Saskia’s scar?
Didrik had lost a friend, and a comrade. No doubt he was thinking that if he had been the one to accompany Devlin, then it might well have been Didrik’s body that was found in the river. Saskia may have given her life to protect Devlin.
Such grief was to be respected. Stephen grieved for Saskia as well, but he would not let it paralyze him. Didrik and Captain Drakken might have given up all hope, but Stephen knew better. Devlin was still alive. He had to be. The Gods would not have led Devlin to the Sword of Light unless they intended for him to wield it.
Devlin might be injured. Imprisoned. Or off on a quest—one so secret that he had been ordered not to confide in Captain Drakken. It was up to his friends to find him, and offer him their aid. No doubt he would laugh if he knew that they were instead sitting passively in Kingsholm, mourning his supposed death.
“I am going out,” Stephen declared.
“No.”
“We cannot simply stay here. We need water.” He shook the nearly empty waterskin in Didrik’s face, then threw it into the corner of the tiny room. “We need food as well. But more than both we need information.”
“You heard what Captain Drakken said—”
“Captain Drakken is wrong. Even if you believe Devlin is dead, there is nothing to be gained by sitting here in the dark, pitying ourselves.” Stephen was proud that his voice did not shake. “You want to know the truth of what happened to Devlin? You will never find it by staring at these filthy walls.”
He kicked the bench with the toe of his boot and it began to sag alarmingly.
“I am leaving,” Stephen declared. He took his cloak down from the peg and swung it around his shoulders.
“No,” Didrik said, rising and grabbing Stephen by the shoulders. “You will not. If anyone goes, it should be me.”
His shoulders ached from the force of Didrik’s grip, but Stephen stood firm, glaring up at him. “You cannot stop me,” he insisted.
“I will tie you to the bench if I need to,” Didrik said, giving him a shake as if he were a recalcitrant child.
Stephen grew angry. Who was Didrik to order him about in such a way? Stephen was not one of the Guard, nor was he Didrik’s brother. He was a free man, capable of making his own decisions.
“If you leave here, you will be imprisoned or dead before sunset,” Didrik declared.
“Keeping me safe will not bring Devlin back,” Stephen said. “Nor will it make up for your failure to protect Devlin.”
Didrik flinched and pushed Stephen away.
Stephen staggered before regaining his balance. “I did not mean . . .” he began, searching for words to apologize for the unforgivable.
“You cannot hate me any more than I hate myself,” Didrik said. “I know where the fault lies.”
“And if he is dead, I have sworn to bring his killers to justice.”
Didrik’s grim fatalism put a damper on Stephen’s natural optimism. Devlin is alive, he has to be alive, he thought, trying to drown out the small voice that whispered that Didrik and Drakken might be right.
“So what do you intend to do?”
“I have contacts of my own. People who look at me and see Stephen the minstrel. They may have heard things that Captain Drakken has not.”
Didrik nodded. “Be careful. I will make my own inquiries. Nifra proved herself loyal when she carried the message to Drakken. She may be able to tell me who else is to be trusted.”
It was not much of a plan. But it was all they had.
“Good luck,” Stephen said.
“And be careful,” Didrik cautioned. “You are no use to anyone dead.”
“Neither are you.”
Seven
SLOWLY THE DREAM IMAGE OF CERRIE’S FACE faded away, and Devlin awoke to misery. His entire body ached, from his throbbing head to his frostbitten feet. Worst of all was his side, which had been torn open by the banecat’s claws. He took a deep breath, and the stabbing pain of his ribs made him immediately regret the action.
How long had he lain here? He tried to think, but his mind was a jumble of confusion. Had it been only yesterday that he fought the banecats? Or had he lain here for days, dying by inches from the wounds he had received in battle? And who was the strange brown-haired foreigner who appeared in his dreams? The man was a Selvarat by his features, yet why would such a one inhabit Devlin’s dreams? Even more puzzling, why would Cerrie appear to drive him off?
Cerrie. His wife’s name gave him pause. He had avenged the murder of his family, but he felt no elation. Not even a grim satisfaction in having fulfilled his oath. Instead he felt a nagging unease, as if he had left a job half-done.
There was something wrong. Something more than fever addled his wits.
Devlin opened his eyes. It was dark, but not the darkness of the cave he remembered. Gone, too, was the numbing cold. And the floor was rocking back and forth. He was moving.
He tried to sit up, bracing himself on his arms. But his arms moved only a short distance before they were caught, held tight by cold metal fastened around his wrists. He tugged his legs, and found they too were chained.
His head fell back against the floor and he groaned.
Almost at once, the rocking motion stopped. Inborn caution made him close his eyes, as he heard the faint sound of voices. There was a rustling sound, perhaps a leather flap being pushed aside?
The floor dipped beneath him under the weight of another body, and he smelled the burning lamp oil even before the light struck his face. Devlin held himself still.
“Is he awake?” a man’s voice called from outside. There was something very familiar about that voice.
Devlin whimpered softly, and twitched his limbs as if trying to roll over.
“No, just dreaming,” said his observer. This was a woman speaking, with a strong accent that he could not place. From Nerikaat perhaps?
The lamplight left his face, and the wagon bounced slightly as the woman climbed out. He opened his eyes the barest fraction, and saw that he was indeed lying on the floor of a small wagon. Curved ribs overhead supported a leather covering, which was open at one end. The woman pulled the leather flap closed behind her, but not before he confirmed that it was night.
“We’d best prepare another dose just the same,” the woman said. “Won’t be long before he wakes.”
“I don’t like this,” her companion replied. “The menas root is losing its effectiveness. Each time it holds him for a shorter period. And we are still days away from our rendezvous.”
“We’ll do what we must. If the drug no longer works, we’ll simply keep him chained. Or hit him over the head again, if that’s what it takes.” The woman’s voice was unconcerned as her fingers worked busily to tie the laces that held the leather flap shut.
“Fine for you to say. You’re not the one who will have to explain to the Prince why his prize is damaged,” the man grumbled. Then his voice drifted off as the wagon lurched into motion again.
His final words triggered an avalanche of memories. Devlin knew that voice. Karel of Selvarat. He had been present in the King’s private receiving room when Devlin had been brought before King Olafur.
Ambassador Magaharan had been there too, along with Marshal Olvarrson and his aide.
From the moment he had entered the chamber, Devlin had felt uneasy. It had been past midnight, after all, an unusual hour for the King to be in council with his advisors. And the presence of the Selvarat ambassador had seemed odd. Regardless of the new alliance between their countries, surely the King would wish to hear Devlin’s report in private.
But instead Devlin found himself in a room filled with foreigners, and those who had vigorously opposed him. Saskia’s presence at his back gave him an obscure feeling of comfort, as did the presence of a pair of guards.
He remembered that King Olafur had frowned when Devlin revealed that he had returned with the Sword of Light. He had asked to examine the weapon, and Devlin had withdrawn the sword from its scabbard with an odd reluctance. The King took it from him, praising his accomplishment, then placed the sword on a table where others could admire it.
The King had suggested a toast to Devlin and personally handed him a wine cup. Devlin had taken it, only to be warned by his ring that the wine was drugged. He called out a warning to the King and stepped forward, only to be struck down from behind.
The last thing he could remember was hearing Saskia cry out.
She, too, had been taken or killed.
Even his drug-addled wits could see the obvious conclusion. He had been betrayed. King Olafur had not summoned Devlin to return because he wished to consult with the Chosen One. Instead he had lured Devlin into a trap, then handed him over to the waiting Selvarats.
There was no other explanation for his predicament. He had been struck down in the very presence of the King, then somehow smuggled from the palace. Chained like a prisoner or slave, he was being delivered as a gift to a foreign prince.
He wondered how many days he had passed in his drugged stupor. Reason said that he was still in Jorsk, for the Selvarats could just as easily have loaded him on a ship if they intended to take him to their homeland.
He did not know what they planned for him, nor did he intend to lie there passively waiting to find out. For once the Geas and his own will were in accord. He must escape. Whatever it took. The Chosen One was too powerful a weapon to be delivered into the hands of their enemies.
Slowly, so as not to rattle the chains, Devlin pulled his arms taut against their manacles and then released them. He repeated the movement as the metal began to cut into his flesh. The pain occupied but a distant corner of his mind as his duty consumed him. He would escape. And then he would have his revenge upon those who had betrayed him.
Stephen shifted his grip on the chest he carried, sliding his right arm underneath so it took more of the weight. His arms ached with the strain, and he found himself wishing that he had chosen a smaller item. But a smaller package would not have served his purposes. He needed an object that was small enough that one man could bear it, yet heavy enough that the palace servants would be content to let him deliver it himself.
That is if he wasn’t recognized and arrested as soon as he reached the palace. He knew he was taking a great risk, but he could see no other way. It had been over a week since he and Didrik had returned to Kingsholm, and they were still no closer to finding Devlin.
He and Didrik had pursued their separate inquiries, much to Captain Drakken’s displeasure. In his careful outings Stephen had found the mood of th
e city to be unsettling. On the surface, all were celebrating the end of winter and the long-sought alliance with Selvarat, which promised the return of peace and prosperity. But the celebrations were lackluster, and the public smiles faded away in private.
Some of his friends had refused to speak to him, their eyes passing over him as if he were a stranger. Those few to whom he did talk were worried. The King’s most vocal critics had gone silent or disappeared. Some had been arrested for sedition, while others fled into hiding.
The Chosen One was seldom mentioned, and when he was, his name was cursed. It cost Stephen every ounce of control he possessed not to protest the first time he was told that Devlin had abandoned the people of Jorsk. By the tenth time he heard it, he had grown numb.
Didrik, too, had grown frustrated by their lack of progress. He had spent three days watching Baron Martell’s residence, only to confirm that Pers Sundgren was not within. Recklessly he’d followed some of the Baron’s armsmen to a tavern and engaged them in conversation. He’d confirmed that the Baron did indeed have a Commander Sundgren who was currently back at the Baron’s seat. But his questions had raised their suspicions, and Didrik had been lucky to make his escape.
He knew that the others had grown discouraged. Didrik had even gone so far as to search the old cemetery, looking for fresh unmarked graves. He had returned to their room covered in dirt and smelling of death.
Captain Drakken had instituted a river patrol, ostensibly searching for smugglers; but he knew that she, too, was looking for a body. Devlin’s body.
Only Stephen held firmly to the belief that Devlin was still alive, though his optimism waned with each day that passed without news.
As Stephen approached the palace gate, the two guards on duty drew themselves to attention. He had purposely chosen the busiest gate, hoping to blend in with the others who passed through, but ill luck was with him, for the gate was strangely deserted, and there was no one to take the guards’ attention away from him.
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