Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  The next morning Devlin’s body ached with exhaustion. He craved sleep, but instead forced himself to rise from his bed and eat the meal that his guards had brought. He needed to keep up his strength if he were to have any chance of escaping. Slowly, as the day wore on, the unnatural exhaustion left him. He felt almost himself when the Prince’s men finally came for him at dusk.

  Once again he was taken to the Prince’s room, and bound to a chair, then left to await Arnaud’s arrival. Long minutes ticked by, ensuring that Devlin had plenty of time to think about what awaited him. But he was too disciplined to give in to his fears, and when the Prince arrived, he was able to greet him with at least the outward appearance of calm.

  “Do you know what mind-sorcery is?” Prince Arnaud asked.

  “It is an abomination.”

  The Prince smiled, as if Devlin had just complimented him. He stepped closer, catching Devlin’s gaze in his. “It is a matter of will”—the Prince brushed his right hand over Devlin’s forehead—“and power,” he concluded, placing his right hand over Devlin’s heart.

  Devlin flinched, certain that the Prince was about to invoke the mind spell that would plunge him into torment. But instead Prince Arnaud took a step backward.

  “Mages rely upon tricks. Ancient runes, magical objects, garbled spells passed down for so long that their meaning has been lost. Most of them have no understanding of the words they chant or the true origins of the powers that they are invoking.”

  “And yet these so-called incompetents invented a spell that you cannot break,” Devlin said.

  “No, the Geas spell was crafted by a true mind-sorcerer. One who understood how to focus will and intent, and distilled that knowledge into a ritual even an unranked mage could invoke.”

  Devlin shrugged. He did not care how the spell had been crafted. What did it matter if it were mind-sorcery or mere magery? However the Geas spell had been designed, it worked. Far too well, sometimes.

  “You know that the spell draws its power from your own strength? That the chains that bind you are forged by your own will?”

  Devlin kept silent. Even if he wished to cooperate, there was nothing that he could reveal. Master Dreng himself did not understand the workings of the Geas, though he had memorized it well enough to cast it.

  He wondered how long it would take Arnaud to realize that he should have kidnapped Master Dreng instead. If the Prince had access to the text of the spell, along with whatever records the mage’s predecessors had left behind, he might well be able to re-create the spell. With or without Devlin’s help.

  It was chilling to think that all of his efforts might be for naught. But there was no time for despair, as the Prince placed his right hand on top of Devlin’s head. Devlin closed his eyes, but the Prince was prepared for this trick, and he gouged his thumb into the corner of Devlin’s left eye socket. Instinctively, Devlin’s eyes flew open, and his gaze was caught and held by the Prince’s glittering gaze.

  Unlike the previous interrogation, he did not sink into unconsciousness. Instead, he felt a steadily growing pressure, battering away at his resolve. I will not give in, Devlin thought. I am the Chosen One and I surrender to no man. He clung to these thoughts, but the pressure increased, and he felt his concentration slipping.

  Cold blue eyes stared into his own, daring him with their defiance, even as their owner trembled from the force of the mind battle. He admired the prisoner’s courage, even as he regretted the necessity of destroying such a fine weapon. But regrets had no place on the path to power, so he cleared his mind, and focused his will.

  Then the world tilted, and he was staring back into the Prince’s dark eyes. Devlin shuddered as he realized that he had briefly shared the Prince’s thoughts. In his horror he lost his concentration, and the Prince swiftly pressed home his advantage.

  Unbidden, the image of Devlin’s Choosing Ceremony came to mind, and once again he heard Brother Arni invoking the blessing of the Gods upon the one who would be their champion.

  Devlin held a knife against his arm, ready to embrace his death, only to be thwarted by the power of the Geas.

  King Olafur appeared, asking Devlin to be his general and to lead the fight against their enemies.

  Then he was in the distant past, a young apprentice as he first beheld the sword that would shape his future.

  He struggled to regain his focus and close off his mind, but the Prince ruthlessly brushed aside his feeble efforts. Faster and faster the visions came, images of his past flickered by, some too swiftly to discern. He ceased trying to control the flood of thoughts, and new faces began to appear, intermixed with his own memories. A regal woman wearing a triple crown, who stirred in him feelings of loathing. An old man, coughing up blood. A fine-boned racing horse, grazing in a paddock. A young peasant boy, screaming as he was dragged away by his elders.

  A cup of dark red wine, overturned on an oaken table.

  He did not know what the images meant. He could no longer tell which memories were his and which were Arnaud’s. Where his mind began and ended. At last he gave himself up to the pull of the darkness. When he awoke, the Prince was gone.

  Devlin’s days fell into a pattern. One day would pass or two, while he regained his strength under the watchful eyes of his guards. And then the Prince would summon him and subject him to another sorcerous attack.

  Each time Devlin resisted as long as he could, but in the end, the Prince always succeeded in prying a piece of his mind open. But for all his searching Arnaud did not find what he was seeking. Devlin’s will remained unbroken, and it pleased him to witness Arnaud’s steadily growing fury.

  The brutal invasions of Devlin’s mind had one strange benefit. Each time Arnaud probed Devlin’s memories, a portion of his own thoughts and memories leaked across the linkage. Usually Devlin was in too much agony to take conscious advantage of the connection; but long after his interrogation sessions had ended, he would turn over the hard-won scraps of knowledge in his mind.

  Arnaud was worried. Time was his enemy, for midsummer approached and he had yet to create his army of spellbound soldiers. The people of Jorsk had seemingly accepted their so-called protectors, but Arnaud was convinced that it was only a matter of time before a leader arose who could unite them in rebellion.

  The Selvarat troops were stretched thin, which explained the presence of the mercenaries under Arnaud’s banner. Rather than sending for reinforcements, Arnaud had gambled that he could make each of his soldiers do the work of ten, strengthened by the relentless drive of the Geas spell.

  It was a strangely complicated plan. At first he’d wondered why Arnaud hadn’t summoned reinforcements. Selvarat was a mighty empire, and with no one to oppose their landings they could easily bring in enough troops to crush any opposition.

  Unless there was some reason that the troops were not available. Was there civil unrest in Selvarat? Had Olafur and the rest fallen for an empty bluff that the Selvarats had no means to back up?

  Was there some reason why Prince Arnaud did not want more Selvarat troops under his command? Was he concealing the weakness of his position from his enemies? Or from his own countrymen? What had brought the imperial consort here to Jorsk in the first place? Surely he had power enough in Selvarat, as well as plenty of opportunity to indulge his perversions.

  Or did his ambition stretch further? Did he seek to be ruler in truth rather than merely a consort to power? On the day that Thania died, Arnaud would be expected to go into seclusion, pushed aside as Thania’s daughter by her first husband inherited the throne.

  Knowing Arnaud as he did, Devlin could not imagine him stepping aside for anyone. Instead, the Prince might be using the Selvarat occupation of Jorsk to strengthen his political position at home.

  Or he could have decided to carve out his own kingdom. That would explain the presence of the mercenaries, whose only loyalty would be to their paymaster. And it would explain Arnaud’s obsession with crafting an army that would be unable to disobey
him.

  It was an interesting theory. If there was even the slightest truth to Devlin’s speculations, then it might well be possible to drive a wedge between the Selvarat regulars and the mercenary auxiliaries. That is if anyone would believe Devlin.

  But first he had to make his escape.

  Sixteen

  DEVLIN’S ROUTINE WAS BROKEN, FOR THIS TIME the guards insisted on blindfolding him and tying his hands behind his back before they led him from his room. He wondered what the change meant. Were they moving him? Had Prince Arnaud decided upon another tactic? Had he finally given up on sorcery after the previous six attempts?

  Or had it been seven? Devlin cast his mind back, but the days and his torments seemed to blur together. He had been Arnaud’s unwilling guest for at least a fortnight, but had it been longer? How long ago had it been that Arnaud had ordered the execution of his cousin Karel?

  Why couldn’t he remember? Was this a sign that Arnaud’s spells were finally taking effect? But as soon as the doubts occurred, Devlin ruthlessly pushed them aside. It did not matter how long he had been Arnaud’s captive. What mattered was that Devlin was still his own man, still free from the Prince’s control. Every day that Devlin managed to defy him was a victory, and he had to believe that each day brought him closer to the time when he would be free.

  He held firmly to this resolve, even as his captors led him into the torture room and once again secured him to the chair. I will be free, Devlin chanted silently. Arnaud will not win. He cannot.

  He heard footsteps approach, then with nimble fingers the Prince untied Devlin’s blindfold.

  “I have a treat for you,” Arnaud announced, with a broad grin.

  Devlin’s muscles tensed. Anything that pleased the Prince boded no good for his prisoner.

  “I thought you might be lonely, so I brought you a friend,” Arnaud said. He stepped aside, giving Devlin the chance to see what lay behind him.

  “By Kanjti’s left ball,” Devlin swore.

  The chair had been moved so that it was directly before the long table, which gave him a clear view of the man who was bound to it. If Devlin’s hands were free, he could have reached out and touched him. But instead he could only look helplessly as Stephen turned his head when he heard Devlin’s voice.

  He was naked, with his face covered in bruises, and there was a blood-soaked bandage on his right arm. A gag prevented him from speaking, but his eyes spoke eloquently enough. Stephen was terrified.

  “You know what I want,” Prince Arnaud said, standing beside Devlin. “You will not cooperate to save yourself, but what about your friend’s life? Is your oath to Olafur worth more to you than a man who has saved your life at least twice?”

  Devlin cursed under his breath. Of all the ill luck. How had Stephen fallen into Arnaud’s hands? He should have been safe back in Kingsholm by now.

  “Your friend thought to rescue you,” Arnaud said, answering Devlin’s unspoken question. “He fell into my trap instead.”

  Arnaud circled the table, so that he stood on the far side. With one hand he squeezed Stephen’s bandaged arm. Stephen’s body jerked, but the Prince’s attention was entirely on Devlin.

  “An interesting dilemma before you. Olafur betrayed you, but Stephen has proven loyal beyond measure. He is of Jorsk, one of those innocents whom you are bound to protect. Which way will the scales tip in your mind?”

  Despair rose within him. From the moment he had seen Stephen, Devlin had known what the Prince intended. His mind cast about desperately, but he could think of no way to stop what was to come. He could not give in to the Prince’s wishes, yet neither could he let Stephen be tortured.

  Devlin’s body strained against the bonds that held him to his chair.

  “You said it yourself. He is innocent,” Devlin said, though he knew it was folly to try and reason with this madman. Still, he had to try. “Nothing you do to me, to him, or to a hundred innocents will change my mind. I cannot yield to you.”

  Arnaud rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “A hundred innocents. Hmm. Perhaps that might be arranged. There are children enough in the villages around here . . .” His voice trailed off suggestively.

  Rage rose within Devlin. His hatred for Arnaud was dwarfed by his anger at those who had placed Devlin in such an impossible position. King Olafur, who had betrayed him. Master Dreng, who had cast the damning spell. The Gods themselves, who had set Devlin’s feet on the path that led to him becoming Chosen One.

  No man should have to endure this. No man should be a slave to another’s will. The Geas was the unyielding anvil upon which Devlin’s soul would be broken.

  “We can save such treats for another day,” Arnaud said. “For now, I believe your friend has something to say.”

  Arnaud motioned to one of the guards, who untied the gag from Stephen’s mouth.

  “Sorry,” Stephen said.

  Was Stephen apologizing for having found himself in this predicament? For placing Devlin in an untenable position?

  It did not matter. Stephen’s regrets were nothing compared to his own. Devlin regretted every step that had led him to Jorsk, and every step he had taken since then, all leading him to this cursed place.

  “Don’t give in, no matter what he does,” Stephen urged him. “Remember, you are the Chosen One. I believe in you.”

  His absurd faith would be the death of him.

  “Believe in yourself,” Devlin said, his voice roughened by anger and grief.

  “Touching. Though I have found such faith is fleeting in the face of true suffering.” The Prince picked up a slender knife and held it up so that Stephen had a good view of it. It was a skinning knife, sharp and flexible. “Remember, you can end this at any time,” Arnaud said.

  “I will kill you slowly,” Devlin said. Bravado was all that he had left. “You and all those here who bear witness to this evil. When I am done with you, even Haakon will refuse to take your souls.”

  “Devlin always keeps his promises,” Stephen informed Arnaud. He attempted a cocky grin, but his smile soon faded.

  The first cut was along Stephen’s left arm, a shallow cut that took long moments before it began to bleed. Arnaud then gave him a matching cut on his left arm, severing the bandage that had covered his wounded forearm.

  Sweat sprang up on Stephen’s brow, and he began to pant shallowly.

  The next series of cuts was on his chest. They were deeper, and when he was finished Arnaud began to peel back Stephen’s skin.

  Stephen moaned.

  Devlin struggled against his bonds. For the first time in years he prayed to the Gods. I will do anything, anything you ask of me, Devlin promised. I will embrace the destiny that you laid out for me as Chosen One if you but spare Stephen from this torment.

  He prayed desperately, invoking Kanjti, who had been his patron when Devlin swore the oath as Chosen One. But the Gods had turned their faces from him. They cared not for mortal woes, nor for the man whose breaths now came in half-choked sobs as he writhed under the knife.

  Devlin continued straining against his bonds, jerking his arms and legs. “Stop this,” he said.

  The Prince looked up from his work. “Have you changed your mind? Will you swear to give me access to your soul?”

  Devlin opened his mouth, praying for the strength to lie, but no words would come out.

  “I thought not,” Arnaud said. “Think hard on what you value most. I can keep your friend alive for many days like this.”

  “Please,” Stephen said.

  Devlin forced himself to look at his friend.

  “Please,” Stephen repeated.

  Was he asking for Devlin to save him? Stephen had always cast Devlin in the light of a mythical hero, but now he was paying for his naïveté.

  Devlin should never have allowed him to become his friend. Never should have let another close to him. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with his family? Devlin was tainted, and he brought death to those who loved him.

  The Prince se
t down the skinning knife, and picked up another blade. He pressed it down over Stephen’s right hand, and there was a sharp crack before Stephen screamed.

  Arnaud held up Stephen’s severed thumb. “He won’t be a minstrel when I am through with him. Yet say the words and you can still save his life.”

  Stephen’s face crumpled and he began sobbing uncontrollably.

  Arnaud dropped the severed thumb on the table, as if it were so much trash, then walked around so he stood on the other side. The side closest to Devlin.

  Arnaud picked up Stephen’s left hand.

  Devlin could endure no more. Arnaud had to be stopped. At any cost. He released the hold on his emotions, letting all of his rage and anger well up within him. Then he surrendered his will to the mindless urgings of the Geas.

  The Geas channeled Devlin’s rage into strength beyond that of mortal man. One foot broke free and, still bound to the chair, Devlin managed to half stand.

  Arnaud’s back was to him as Devlin lurched forward.

  A guard called out a warning, but it was too late, as Devlin rammed into Arnaud. They fell to the floor with an ominous crack.

  Arnaud lay still beneath him, crushed beneath Devlin’s weight and that of the heavy chair, which weighed at least as much as a man. If luck were with him, the Prince had fallen upon his knife.

  Devlin struggled and managed to pull his right arm free. He found Arnaud’s neck and began to squeeze. His body jerked as the guards tried to move the heavy chair. He could feel Arnaud’s pulse beneath his fingers as he tightened his grip. Nothing else mattered, not the shouts of the guards, nor the sharp pain that stabbed at Devlin’s side. All his will was focused on crushing the life out of his tormentor.

  But even as the Prince’s pulse slowed, his prize was ripped from his grasp, and a sharp blow to Devlin’s head sent him reeling into the darkness.

  He awoke to the sound of rain falling upon the roof. It was a comforting sound, as it had been since his childhood, when he and his brother would listen to the falling rain from the safety of their bedchamber up under the eaves. He clung to the memory, and to the image of falling rain, feeling strangely reluctant to wake.