Seeing the direction of Devlin’s gaze, the Prince smiled. He patted his mouth with a napkin and signaled to the servant, who refilled their glasses.
At last, the meal was over, and Devlin waved away the servant who had tried to set a sweet in front of him. He hadn’t really been able to do justice to the food, in part because of the strangeness of eating with his captor. And, in part, because he was dreading what would happen when the meal was over and the Prince tired of his sport.
The ale had been a temptation, but he had limited himself to a single tankard. He would need his wits about him.
“Tell me about the Geas spell,” the Prince said, after the plates had been cleared away and the last servant had left the room.
“You have been in my mind, and know what I know. You even know my taste for ale. Why should I tell you what you already know?”
“Indulge me.”
He hesitated. The Prince must have a reason for asking. He knew the Prince had accessed at least some of Devlin’s thoughts while their minds had been linked. But had that linkage been less complete than the Prince had implied? In which case it would be folly to give the Prince any information that could be used against him.
“Answer my questions and you will be allowed to return to your chamber to sleep. Undisturbed.”
The alternative was unspoken. He had no doubt that the Prince had even more creative ways to make him suffer.
Devlin shrugged. There was no harm in telling the Prince that which was common knowledge in Jorsk.
“A candidate to be named Chosen One presents himself at the Royal Temple,” Devlin began. “The priest prays and the mage chants the Geas spell. If the candidate is false, he is struck down and consumed by flames. If he is true, then he is named Chosen One.”
Some held that the Gods themselves were responsible for choosing worthy candidates to hold the post. But the cynic in Devlin believed that it was the spells cast by the mage that destroyed those who were deemed unfit.
“A position of power, second only to the King in the old days,” Arnaud mused.
“So I have been told.” Indeed, Stephen had recounted the lore of the great Chosen Ones so often that, despite himself, Devlin had learned their stories by heart.
“Yet they are so frightened by that power that they bind the Chosen One to his duty, using a spell so that you cannot betray your oaths. A strange thing to do to one who is called the champion of the Gods.”
“The Gods did not call me to champion. I volunteered for the reward,” Devlin said. At the time he had been able to see no further than the ten golden disks that were given to the newly named Chosen One. Now, two years later, it was hard to believe that he was the same man.
“So you claim. But how many times have you wondered if the decision was ever truly yours to make?”
Devlin jerked back in his chair. This was an abomination! The damn sorcerer knew more about him than even his closest friends. The secrets of his soul had been laid bare to this man’s prodding. And now the man was using that knowledge against him.
The violation outraged him, all the more because he was completely helpless. There was nothing he could do, no means to strike back at the Prince. He could only feign calm, and not give Arnaud the satisfaction of seeing how rattled he was.
“As for the Geas spell, I know not how it works,” Devlin said, returning to the Prince’s original question. “Not even Master Dreng understands it.”
More the pity. Dreng had sworn he would lift the spell if it was in his power, but experiments had revealed that it was not. Devlin would bear the burden of the Geas until the day he died.
“I wouldn’t expect your so-called mage to understand the spell. He can barely enchant a fire-starter,” Prince Arnaud said, dismissing Dreng with a wave of his hand. “If he had studied a bit more, he would realize that Geas was based on mind-sorcery. A far different skill than the petty magic he practices.”
The Prince toyed with his wineglass, seeming intrigued by the shifting patterns of light on the dark liquid.
“Unlike your petty mages and hedge wizards, I have true power. If I chose, I could free you from the Geas.”
“Then why haven’t you done so?” Arnaud had to be lying. It was a trick. It must be.
“It would require your cooperation,” Arnaud said. He caught and held Devlin’s gaze. “But think of it. Isn’t that what you have wanted ever since you became Chosen One? I could give you your life back. Your free will. You would once again be your own man, free to make your own choices.”
Devlin drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The Prince could have found no better bait for his trap. And surely this was a trap of some sort, even if Devlin could not see the iron jaws waiting to close on him.
He was tempted. Even knowing what he did of the Prince. Knowing his madness, his evil, and even with a body that still ached from the Prince’s care, Devlin was tempted.
Ironically it was the Geas itself that saved him. Devlin’s own wants were immaterial. The Geas understood only duty, and it would not allow itself to be destroyed.
“I must decline,” Devlin said, as if he had been offered a great boon.
“Do not be hasty,” the Prince said, rising from his chair. “Sleep on it and give me your answer tomorrow.”
“My answer will be unchanged,” Devlin said.
“I hope you are wrong. For both our sakes.”
Fourteen
STEPHEN PAUSED AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS, struck by a sudden fit of nerves. This should have been a familiar place, for in his travels as a minstrel he had been in dozens of such small country inns. But then his only concern had been whether or not the patrons would care for his music. Sometimes the audiences had been appreciative, giving him copper coins and buying him glasses of dark wine. Other times they had been less friendly, including one memorable night where they had thrown crockery and driven him into the street. Such was the life of a man trying to make a name for himself as a minstrel.
But these days he played a different kind of game. He had left his music behind in Kingsholm. And now if he failed to play his part, the stakes would not be a lost dinner, but their lives.
He forced himself to move forward until he stood on the threshold of the common room, peering around for an empty table. The room was crowded, for they had reached town on the weekly market day. He watched a group of drovers rise to their feet; Stephen made his way quickly through the crowd to claim the places they had left vacant.
A young boy appeared out of nowhere, pocketing the coppers left on the table, then picking up the empty glasses and giving the table a halfhearted wipe with a rag.
“Just you?” the boy asked.
“My wife will be joining me in a few moments, and I expect my guards will come once they have finished their business,” Stephen said, keeping to the story they had agreed upon. “Bring a pitcher of wine and four glasses to start. And find out what the cook is serving for dinner.”
“It’s pork,” the boy said with a grin. “It’s always pork on market day. But I’ll ask Ma if there’s anything else.”
Stephen shrugged. “Pork will do. But not now. Wait till the others have joined me.”
The boy nodded and wandered off. He returned with the wine and the glasses just as Oluva arrived and took her seat. She frowned as she glanced around the room.
“Was everything to your satisfaction?” Stephen asked.
“Yes, quite a pleasant place. We must thank Ensign Romana for her recommendation,” Oluva said. But her eyes continued to scan the patrons of the inn, looking for trouble.
Their table was practically in the center of the room. A good spot if one wanted to be seen but a poor one for defense. Devlin would never have sat here, but in his assumed role Stephen could hardly call attention to himself by refusing the only open table.
Around them he heard scraps of conversation. On the surface it was the usual chatter of a small town, talk of bargains made, a swindler who had gotten his comeuppance, a
nd a whispered scandal that seemed to involve the local priestess, a young man, and the gift of a pig. Sadly the speaker lowered her voice before Stephen could figure out what part the pig had played in the affair.
He shook his head, realizing that he had allowed himself to become distracted. It was not what these folks were saying that was of interest. It was what they were not talking about. No one mentioned the Selvarat troops, or the newly announced protectorate. Nor did anyone mention the King’s name. It was as if they were all trying very hard to pretend everything was normal. They were either deluding themselves, or they lived in fear of informers. If Stephen had to bet, he’d wager on the latter.
Folk continued to stream into the common room, pushing their way onto the few benches and standing when there was no room to be found. Stephen came in for his share of glares when he refused to give up the two empty chairs at his table, but no one challenged him. He’d heard at least one voice muttering the word half-breed, and so he knew that the tale he’d told the innkeeper had already begun to spread.
They were halfway through their second glass of heavily watered wine when Captain Drakken and Didrik made their appearance. Like Oluva they frowned when they saw the table, but there were no other places open and so they took their seats.
“I bought fresh grain for the horses, and the other provisions will be delivered tonight, sir,” Didrik said.
In keeping with the story he had told the ensign, Stephen was posing as the distant connection of a Selvarat family, no doubt hoping to use his family ties to improve his fortunes. Oluva was his wife. Didrik and Drakken were two unemployed mercenaries whom Stephen had hired as escort. The story would hold upon a cursory scrutiny. Stephen had his mother’s brown hair and in appearance favored her side of the family. But if he met anyone from the house of Narine, or, Gods forbid, his cousin Hayden, then the game would be over. Stephen son of Gemma would be unmasked as Stephen son of Brynjolf, Baron of Esker, and a wanted fugitive.
Captain Drakken lifted the wine jug, and with a “By your leave,” poured glasses for herself and Didrik.
“I made inquiries in the market. The first speaker tells me the regional proctor is riding circuit and is not expected back for several days,” she said, pitching her voice so he could hear her over the babble of conversations around them. Of course doing so also meant that any listeners would hear confirmation that Stephen and his companions were just who they said they were.
“That is unfortunate,” Stephen said. “I suppose we could wait—”
He let his voice trail into silence.
“The speaker was kind enough to tell me that the main encampment is a dozen leagues north of here. If your cousin is not there, they will have records of where he has been sent,” Captain Drakken said. “Of course it is your choice, but it might be pleasant to rest in an inn for a few days.”
The boy returned, balancing four trenchers on his thin arms. He set the dinners down before them, then returned a moment later with cutlery. It was indeed pork, garnished with dried apples, accompanied by slices of fresh bread.
Compared to their journey rations, this was a feast. Only good manners prevented them from falling upon their food. As it was, they made swift work of their portions, and Didrik summoned the boy over to bring him a second serving.
Only after they had satisfied their hunger did Captain Drakken return to the topic of their earlier conversation.
“Have you decided to stay and wait for the proctor? If so, I will inform the innkeeper and let the stable hand know that he needs to store our provisions,” she said.
He wondered what she expected him to say.
“It seems a shame to travel and leave behind such fine fare,” Didrik said. His face, at least, Stephen knew how to read. Didrik’s words urged that they stay, but his eyes said otherwise.
“I see no reason to dally when my cousin may be so near to hand,” Stephen said. “We will press on in the morning.”
“As you wish,” Captain Drakken said.
After a few moments he and Oluva excused themselves. Captain Drakken and Didrik stayed behind, to see what local gossip they could pick up. Normally that would have been a task that Stephen excelled at, but not now. Not when he had publicly declared his connections to the occupying forces.
Oluva pulled off her boots, then stretched out on the bed that dominated the tiny room, propping her head up on one hand. She patted the empty right side of the bed with one hand in invitation, but Stephen shook his head and began to pace.
Declaring Oluva his wife had seemed a brilliant inspiration this afternoon. Certainly the patrol had been convinced by the tale he had spun. But that had been on an open road, in the clear light of afternoon sun. Now, in this tiny room, lit only by lamplight, he was beginning to have second thoughts. Oluva was a fine-looking woman, and if she were anyone else, he might have seen this as an opportunity. But since the earliest days of their acquaintance Oluva had made it quite clear that she viewed him as if he were a younger brother. It was ironic that he was forced to pretend affection for the one woman who had made it quite plain that she wasn’t interested in him.
He knew that Oluva could sense his nervousness, but fortunately she put it down to the strain of their mission.
“Relax, you did fine. There is nothing to worry about,” she reassured him.
“There is everything to worry about,” Stephen said. And the knowledge suddenly distracted him from Oluva’s presence.
It had been weeks since Devlin had disappeared, and who knew what might have happened to him during his captivity? If the mind-sorcerer was indeed involved somehow in Devlin’s disappearance, then what did that mean? Why had he chosen to capture Devlin rather than trying to destroy him as he had before?
Stephen glanced over at the corner where Devlin’s great axe stood. The blade was covered now, but he had made a ritual of checking it every morning when he arose and every night before he retired. Assuring himself that Devlin was still alive.
And Devlin was not his only concern. Solveig had refused to leave Kingsholm, despite his entreaties. She’d promised that she would return to Esker when she felt the dangers outweighed the possible rewards of having a set of eyes and ears at the court, but it would be easy for her to misjudge the situation. The same mistake his mother might have made, when she and Madrene found themselves detained in Selvarat.
Stephen would never forgive himself if anything happened to his family while he was searching for Devlin. But he could not give up the search for the Chosen One. Didrik and the others were skilled warriors, it was true. But they did not have Stephen’s faith. They had mourned Devlin as dead and would have abandoned him to his fate.
Stephen would never forsake his friend. No matter how dim the hope or how far the trail led. If he had to pursue Devlin on his own, he would. He would find Devlin and trust in the Gods and his own strength to free him. And then, let their enemies beware.
The Selvarat army had established an encampment on flat meadowland along the banks of the Floryn River. The river provided easy access to supplies and reinforcements from the sea, while the flat open plain provided perfect defensive conditions. It would be impossible to approach the encampment without being seen.
From the hillside overlooking the valley, they had observed what they could of the camp. It was laid out in a grid pattern, with neatly ordered rows of tents of various shapes and sizes. The smallest of the tents housed the soldiers, while the largest in the center were probably for the officers and the administration. Captain Drakken had estimated that there might be as many as five hundred soldiers in the encampment. Along with space for horses, wagons, provisions, and all the baggage of an army in the field.
It fell to Stephen actually to enter the camp. The sentry on duty had summoned a messenger to take him to see the camp commander. Oluva was not allowed within, so with promises to return swiftly, he left her and their horses at the camp entrance. Drakken and Didrik had been left two leagues back, concealed in the thin pi
ne forest. Just in case entering the camp turned out to be a trap.
General Bertrand was too busy to see Stephen, but his aide proved the talkative type, and it was some time before Stephen could take his leave. The aide insisted on walking Stephen back to the camp entrance and being introduced to his wife.
Oluva’s face brightened when Stephen appeared. No doubt she had been wondering if he had been taken prisoner or exposed as a fraud.
“Did you find him?” she asked.
“Alas, no. It seems we were misinformed. There is a Lieutenant Hayden who has since been dispatched to Myrka, but he is from Vrital,” Stephen said. “Major Willem, may I present my wife Oluva? Oluva, this is Major Willem, who has been so gracious as to make time to answer my questions.”
The Major bowed, and Oluva executed a credible curtsy. “It is an honor to meet you,” she said.
“A pleasure to meet such a reasonable-minded pair,” the Major said. He turned back to face Stephen. “Remember your cousin may well be en route here to assume his new posting. New troops are expected before fall, and he may well be among them. If he is, I will give him the scroll that you left.”
“You are kindness itself,” Stephen answered. “And, of course, should your duties take you to Rosmaar, you must promise to call upon me. I promise to show you the best that this land has to offer. Our home is near the town of Somerled, just over the border in Rosmaar. Ask anyone in Somerled, and they can direct you.”
“Of course, we would welcome you and your friends. At any time,” Oluva said. If her voice held a touch of hesitation, hopefully it would be put down to anxiety over whether or not their home was grand enough to receive such an important guest.
After another exchange of compliments they were finally able to depart. They rode slowly away, careful to give no sign of haste, nodding politely and drawing their horses to one side as a patrol rode in toward the camp. Gradually the road rose up into the hill, and the flat plain gave way to a few scrubby trees, which thickened almost imperceptibly into a pine forest. They waited until they were well out of sight of the camp and the road had curved behind them before turning off into the trees and backtracking to where they had agreed to meet their friends.
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