“And over you as well,” she replied. She was not a religious woman, but they would need all the help they could get.
No one challenged them as they made their way through the city, and as the dawn broke, the guards on duty looked the other way as Drakken and her companions slipped out of the eastern gate. She said nothing to them, so they could truthfully claim they had neither seen nor heard her.
It was humbling to realize how many people had risked their lives so that she could make her escape. From the moment Master Dreng had revealed that Devlin was alive, she had known that she could not remain in the city. But neither could she leave Kingsholm in the hands of Ansgar and his ilk. Together she and Embeth had hatched this plan, one that would bring Embeth into favor while eliminating the treacherous Ansgar.
War had been declared this night, though it was doubtful that anyone besides herself had realized it. Drakken might have been the first, but in time everyone would be forced to choose between serving a lawless King and their duty toward their country. Those slain tonight were but the first of the casualties that would come.
The horses were waiting at the Drover’s Inn, as were Didrik and Stephen.
Didrik frowned at Oluva’s appearance, but merely said, “The horses are saddled, and we are ready to leave as soon as you mount up.”
“We are bound for Korinth, to rescue Devlin if we can. And once the Chosen One is in our hands, we plan to challenge King Olafur and his damned Selvarat friends,” Drakken informed him.
Rikard’s jaw dropped. “Devlin is alive? Are you certain?”
Stephen patted the great axe he wore slung over his back. “Yes, we have proof.”
“Will you come with us?” Drakken asked.
Embeth had wanted to come, as had Lukas, and there were others who would have come if she had but asked. But it was a matter of balancing risks. Kingsholm needed the Guard to protect it, and to make sure that the city did not fall into anarchy. And a few more swords would make no difference. She was not planning on challenging the Selvarats to battle. She was planning on exercising stealth and cunning, and a small, swiftly moving group was of far more use to her.
Rikard shook his head. “My place is in Myrka,” he said.
“Your province is under Selvarat rule, and you have been named traitor,” she reminded him.
“My people will not accept the Selvarat yoke,” he said confidently. “With me to lead them they will rise up and overthrow the invaders.”
“You will get yourself killed.”
“It is my life. Those are my lands, the very soil is in my blood. I can do no less.”
“So be it,” she said.
Didrik led a roan gelding out of its stall and held it as Rikard attempted to mount. It took him two tries, and when he finally succeeded Rikard’s face was gray, and he held his right arm clamped firmly around his ribs. A brave man, but foolish. Riding alone and injured he would be easy prey for the patrols that the King would send out after the escaped prisoners.
“Didrik, do we have a spare sword?” she asked.
“Your fighting sword is on your saddle,” he replied. “Lukas smuggled it out of the palace yesterday.”
So absorbed had she been in her preparations that she had not even noticed one of her swords was missing. She wondered what else she had overlooked, then dismissed the thought as unimportant. What was done was done and there was no going back.
She unbuckled the borrowed sword from her waist and lashed the scabbard to Rikard’s saddle. “If I were you, I’d not be taken alive,” she advised.
“Give my respects to the Chosen One,” he replied. Then he kneed his horse into a slow walk.
“Mount up,” she said, as Didrik and Stephen led the remaining horses out from their stalls.
She watched as Rikard’s figure disappeared from view.
“He will be lucky if he lasts a day on the road,” Didrik said.
“So will we if we tarry any longer,” she said sharply. “We’d best be going, as we will not find Devlin by standing around here talking.”
As they rode, she resisted the urge to turn around, to take one final look at the walls of the city where she had served for over a quarter of a century. It felt as if she was abandoning her post, but she reminded herself that she was not running away. She was journeying toward a goal. They would find Devlin, and when they returned they would set the Kingdom to rights.
Eleven
THREE DAYS PASSED, AND AS DEVLIN’S STRENGTH returned, so too did his confusion and frustration. Prince Arnaud had gone to great lengths to have Devlin brought here, wherever this place was, yet now he ignored him. And rather than being thrown in a dank cell, Devlin was treated as if he were an honored guest. That is if one ignored the barred windows and the ever-present gaolers who watched his every move.
Meals fit for Prince Arnaud himself were brought to his chamber, far more than one man could do justice to, though Devlin ate as much as he could. He had not needed Master Justin’s explanations to know that he had lost weight during his captivity. His captors had kept him so drugged that he could scarcely eat, and the flesh had melted from his bones.
More, too, had been lost during the healing process. Devlin had listened with only half an ear as Master Justin had described how Devlin’s mindless attempts to free himself from his chains had torn his flesh, and the mangled shreds had begun to rot. Master Justin had healed Devlin so that he bore only fading scars, but such healing had sapped his stamina. The healer had castigated Devlin for his recklessness, but Devlin had not seen fit to enlighten him. It had not been Devlin who had struggled long past the point of reason. It had been the Geas, which freed from Devlin’s own reason knew only the mindless devotion to his oaths.
Protect Jorsk. Serve her King. The Geas spell was implacable. Even after King Olafur’s betrayal, the Geas did not relent. Devlin must destroy Prince Arnaud so his evil could not threaten Jorsk. If he could find no way of destroying the Prince, then Devlin must escape. Or destroy himself, lest the Chosen One somehow be turned into a weapon against Jorsk.
Though how Prince Arnaud planned to use him, he did not know. Was Devlin’s mere presence enough? Did he plan to use the Chosen One as a figurehead for an invasion of Jorsk? If so, he would be disappointed. The nobles had never loved Devlin, and with the exception of a few hotheads like Lord Rikard, no one would support him. The commoners had hailed Devlin as a champion, but before he could consolidate his power he had been sent out of the country, on a quest to retrieve the Sword of Light.
He paused a moment to wonder what had happened to the legendary weapon meant only to be wielded by the anointed Chosen One. Was it even now locked away within the King’s vaults, awaiting the day when some other fool was named Chosen One?
“What place is this?” he asked.
His gaolers made no answer. There were always two of them. There were at least two more outside, who could be seen whenever the door was opened. They were mercenaries, and their uniforms were as mismatched as their features. But they were well-trained, for they stood their watches without complaint and without visible sign of boredom or fatigue. They did not speak to him except to give him instructions, and they would not respond to his taunts.
It would be difficult to take them off guard. And he had not forgotten Prince Arnaud’s threat. The consequences of a failed escape attempt would be dire.
Devlin would have to be patient and await the right opportunity to strike.
On the fourth day, Master Justin visited just after breakfast and pronounced himself satisfied with Devlin’s progress.
“The sooner you cooperate with the Prince, the sooner we will both be set free,” Master Justin urged him. Apparently he still clung to his first impression that Devlin was a witless fool.
Devlin smiled grimly. “The Chosen One serves no foreign master,” he said. “Your future is your own to make.”
It was possible that the healer might go free, but doubtful. Prince Arnaud did not strike him as a ma
n who would relinquish any tool that came to hand.
Devlin’s fate was even murkier. Prince Arnaud had informed him that he had great plans for him, but surely the Prince must know that he could not expect Devlin’s cooperation.
Though it occurred to him to wonder what would have happened if Olafur had simply commanded Devlin to go with Karel and serve Prince Arnaud. Would the Geas have compelled him to obey? Was the Chosen One a cur who could be freely passed from one master to another? Or would his oath to protect the people of Jorsk have overridden the King’s orders?
The Geas spell was a clumsy thing, meant to ensure the loyalty of the Chosen Ones. It had the relentless power of a bludgeon, and the finesse to match. A man might well go mad under its power, torn between obeying two conflicting oaths.
Had one of his predecessors ever faced such a dilemma? If Stephen were here, he would be able to answer Devlin’s questions. But at this moment Devlin was glad that Stephen was far from this place, and safe.
With a few muttered imprecations, Master Justin took his leave.
Devlin began a slow walk around the perimeter of the room. As before, the mercenaries allowed him to approach within two paces before warning him away. He nodded, and altered his path. Perhaps given time they would grow less vigilant.
His head was bent, as if in thought, but his eyes took in every detail of the room, looking for something he might have overlooked in his previous circuits. Anything that could be used as a weapon.
But there was nothing. The bed had four tall posts, but the bed hangings and their cords had been removed. He could fashion a rope out of a torn sheet, but not while he was under constant observation. He had no belt, and he had been given a shirt with buttons rather than ties. His boots with their hidden knives were nowhere to be seen. Instead, they had given him soft leather shoes to wear. Even his meat was sliced before it was delivered, and his fork and spoon were carefully collected after each meal.
He gave a short laugh. It was flattering that they respected him so much, but for once he wouldn’t have minded being misjudged.
Devlin halted midstride as the door swung open, and a woman wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the Selvarat army entered. “The Viceroy wants to see him,” she told his gaolers. “Bring him.”
A rope had been brought and Devlin’s hands were tied behind his back. The lieutenant led the way, flanked by two soldiers, while the mercenaries trailed a cautious pace behind. Devlin kept his eyes open, looking for a means of escape or any clue as to where he was. The corridor they traveled was wide, lined by the shocking extravagance of a carpeted runner, confirming his guess that this was the house of a nobleman or a wealthy merchant. The windows that lined one side were tall but narrow, too narrow for a man of his frame to pass through, hinting that the place had been built with an eye to defense, despite its opulence.
They escorted him to what appeared to be an office or library. There were bookcases on one wall, filled with bound books and racks of scrolls. Stacks of parchment and half-unrolled scrolls covered a massive heartwood desk, while a map of Jorsk was spread across a table and held down by leaden weights. Notations had been scribbled across the map in dark ink, but as Devlin leaned to take a closer look, his arms were grasped from behind, and he was jerked away.
There were five armed enemies and he was unarmed, so Devlin stood meekly as his arms were untied.
“Sit,” the lieutenant said, as one of her men dragged a scarred wooden chair into the center of the room.
He did so, but when the soldier approached with a rope and grasped his left arm, Devlin withdrew it with a jerk.
“No,” he said, preparing to rise.
“My orders are to break all the bones in your hands if you refuse to cooperate,” the woman said politely. “Of course that means Elda and Renzo here will have to take over feeding you and wiping your ass. But it’s your choice.”
It was not her words that chilled him, but rather the absolute indifference in her tone. She truly did not care whether he was crippled or not.
He sat back down and allowed his arms and legs to be bound to the heavy chair. The lieutenant checked the bindings and only when she was satisfied that he could not move did she and the others leave.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the door on the far side of the room opened and Prince Arnaud entered. He wore boots and trousers, as if he had recently been riding or intended to ride soon.
“Chosen One,” he said. Even wearing boots, his footsteps were nearly silent as he padded into the room and slowly circled around Devlin, studying his prisoner from every angle.
“I would offer you refreshment but in your condition . . .” The Prince waved his hand as Devlin’s bonds.
“I would prefer a few answers instead,” Devlin said. “Where am I? And why have you brought me here?”
“I apologize for ignoring you for so long. But other matters commanded my attention. Too, I thought it only fair to give you a chance to regain your strength before we spoke again.”
Arnaud continued his wanderings around the room, forcing Devlin to crane his neck to keep him in view. He paused briefly by the map, his fingers tracing some feature that caught his interest. Then he moved over to his desk and picked up a wax tablet, seeming intent on its contents, as if he had forgotten all about his unwilling guest.
But Devlin knew his ploy for the game that it was and he did not react. Deliberately he turned his gaze back to the wall in front of him.
“Tell me, how does it feel to know you have given your loyalty to a coward and a fool?”
Devlin could not suppress a start, for Arnaud had come up behind him without his realizing it. His muscles clenched as Arnaud ran the fingers of one hand across Devlin’s taut shoulders. Then the Prince circled around him, cupping Devlin’s chin with one hand, forcing Devlin to meet his gaze.
“He betrayed you without a moment’s hesitation, to save his own hide. Not twelve months ago you saved him from a conspiracy that would have cost him his throne, and this is how he repays you. He did not even ask why I wanted you, though surely the dullest of men could understand that I meant you no good,” Arnaud said. “He is unfit to rule a dung heap, and yet this is the man you have sworn to serve. The man who will lead your country to its ruin.”
There was something about Arnaud’s voice that teased at the back of his memory. Something about the deliberate cadences of his speech.
“It’s not my country,” Devlin ground out.
Arnaud smiled as if Devlin were a particularly clever child, and released his hold on him.
“Yes, there’s that. You are a living contradiction. King Olafur’s father crushed your own folk under his heel, yet now you serve his son. Pledged to defend him and his kingdom until your death. Tell me, do your vows still bind you, now that you have been betrayed? Are you your own man? Or are you still Olafur’s lapdog?”
“Other men may take and cast off oaths like a man changing his cloak. But I am the Chosen One,” Devlin answered.
In the end, he had no choice. The Geas spell ensured as much. The Chosen One was compelled to remain faithful to his oaths. It would drive him to the very limits of human endurance, and beyond. It knew neither doubt nor pity, and under its control the Chosen One was both less and more than a man.
“And if you weren’t ensorcelled?” the Prince asked. “What then would be your answer? Would you be free to join me?”
Devlin’s skin crawled. It was as if the Prince had been inside his mind, seeing his very thoughts.
“I’ve dabbled in spells in my days, but the spell that binds the Chosen Ones is indeed a marvel. One such man is an asset, but an army of Chosen Ones? Soldiers who feel no fear, who cannot disobey, and who will fulfill my orders at all costs? With a thousand such I could rule the world,” Arnaud said.
“You will never command me,” Devlin said.
“But I already do. You belong to me.”
The words echoed in Devlin’s brain, calling to mind the dark da
ys of the past winter, and how a disembodied voice had nearly driven him mad.
“You,” he breathed. “You are the one. The mind-sorcerer.”
Arnaud gave a half bow, as if Devlin had just paid him a compliment. “Indeed, I was wondering when you would recognize me. You see we are old friends already. I have lived in your mind, and I know everything about you.”
Devlin’s heart quickened as he fought off the beginnings of panic. Last winter Arnaud had used mind-sorcery to attack him, nearly driving Devlin mad. And it had been done while Arnaud was several hundred leagues away. Who knew what such a mind-sorcerer could do, now that he had captured Devlin?
His arms jerked involuntarily, seeking escape. But as Arnaud’s smile broadened, Devlin fought to bring himself under control. Witless panic would not serve him, and he would not give the man the satisfaction of seeing his fear. He slowed his breathing and deliberately relaxed his limbs.
“Twice now you have attacked me, and twice now you have failed,” Devlin said. “Perhaps it is time you found a new obsession.”
“I will have your help, willing or not,” Arnaud said. “But you can spare yourself this ordeal. Swear to me that you will serve me, and I will set you free.”
A cunning man would lie. Convince the Prince that he meant his new oath and wait his opportunity to strike.
Devlin opened his mouth, but his tongue was frozen. He could not lie, not even if it would save his life. After a long moment he closed his mouth and shook his head.
“Chosen One, you do not disappoint,” Arnaud said. He turned away from Devlin and walked over to a side table, where he selected a goblet and filled it with a pale yellow wine. He took a sip, then set the wine aside. Moving to the map table, he picked up one of the metal weights in his hand. He turned it over for a few moments, then moved to the fireplace. Each movement was deliberate as he grasped the weight with a pair of tongs and held it in the center of the flames.
It was not a forge fire, but merely one meant for warming a largish room. Still, it was enough for his purposes, and when the tongs were removed the metal glowed a sullen red.
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