Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  But when he opened his eyes, he found himself once again in a horror chamber.

  It had not been rain that he heard, but rather the sound of Stephen’s blood dripping onto the floor. Devlin watched the slowly falling drops for a moment, mesmerized by the widening stain. Then he lifted his eyes.

  Stephen was dead. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, and his chest was still. No more would he look to Devlin for his salvation.

  It was a mercy of sorts. Devlin was too numb to feel anything. Not anger, not despair, just an overwhelming numbness.

  “You killed your friend.”

  Devlin turned, and saw that the Prince was seated on a chair a short distance to his left. His robe was dusty and blood-speckled, and there were shadows that would soon blossom into bruises around his throat; but he was still very much alive and unharmed.

  Devlin had failed.

  “Your foolish charge jarred my hand. Instead of merely cutting your friend, I plunged the knife into his chest. He died before the healer could be summoned.”

  “He is free from you, at least,” Devlin said. It was a small comfort.

  He looked over at Stephen, and for a moment his vision swam and he saw two figures lying there, one imposed over the other. He blinked, and then when he looked again, the image had solidified.

  The blow to his head must have addled his wits. Devlin’s right arm began to throb and as he looked down he saw that his wrist was bent at an unnatural angle. He tried to move his fingers, but the swollen digits no longer obeyed.

  “I warned you what would happen,” Arnaud said. “That arm is only the beginning of your punishment. I wanted to save the rest for when you would be aware of what was happening to you.”

  He had gambled, and he had lost. Arnaud was still alive, and worse, Devlin had not been able to provoke the guards into giving him a mortal wound. He would spend his final days as Arnaud’s prisoner, a helpless cripple unable to influence his fate.

  Only death would save him now, but he knew better than to expect that he would be granted that mercy. Not until Arnaud finally unlocked the secrets of the Geas spell.

  Until now, he had clung to the belief that somehow he would find a way out of this trap. If he was strong, if he kept his wits about him, if he kept himself ready to act when the opportunity presented itself. But now, with Stephen’s death, Devlin realized that he had been fooling himself. There would be no miraculous escape. No chance to twist the ugliest of defeats into something that resembled victory.

  Despair washed over him.

  The door opened, and the female ensign entered, bearing a long slender object wrapped in leather. Prince Arnaud rose to his feet and accepted the object from her.

  Devlin could feel it calling to him, tugging at him. Even before Arnaud unwrapped his prize, Devlin knew what it was. The Sword of Light. The weapon of the Chosen Ones, said to have been crafted by a descendant of the Forge God Egil. For centuries, it had been borne by men and women whose names were legends to the people of Jorsk.

  The sword that had been lost during the Siege of Ynnis, when Devlin’s people had been conquered by the armies of Jorsk. But not before they had killed the Chosen One Saemund, and his sword had vanished. Lost for forty years, its power had lain dormant until the day that Devlin had first beheld it. Since then his destiny had been tied to the sword. Unwittingly it had led him to his doom, shaping the path that forced him to become Chosen One and later leading him back to Duncaer to reclaim this Jorskian treasure.

  At great cost Devlin had brought the sword back to Kingsholm. And now, like himself, it had been handed over to the Kingdom’s greatest enemy.

  With this sword King Olafur could have named a new Chosen One, found a figure to rally his people in their own defense. But the King had relinquished this advantage, just as he had discarded Devlin himself. He had thrown away the very things that might have preserved his throne.

  “It knows you,” Arnaud said.

  Indeed, the stone set in the pommel of the sword now glowed with a dull red fire, matching the glow within Devlin’s ring. The fingers of Devlin’s left hand scrabbled helplessly at the arm of his chair. Legend held that the sword would come when the Chosen One called it, but though Devlin bent all his will upon summoning the sword, it moved not a fraction.

  Stephen had been wrong. He would have to tell him—

  Grief rose up within him, as he recalled himself to the present. There would be no chance to gently chide his friend for believing in the most improbable of tales. No chance to remind him that Devlin was living flesh and not one of his pretty ballads brought to life.

  No chance to make amends.

  “Since you have proven immune to all other forms of persuasion, there is one more spell to try,” Arnaud said. “It may leave you witless, but in your situation that would be a kindness.”

  Arnaud removed the sword from its scabbard and laid it flat on the end of the table, at the foot of Stephen’s lifeless body. Dipping his fingers in Stephen’s blood, he wrote runes along the length of the sword and upon the pommel. Then he turned it over and did the same on the other side. Coated with Stephen’s blood, the glowing jewel gave off a ghastly light, pulsing like a beating heart.

  Arnaud dipped his fingers in the pooled blood a final time, and then came over to Devlin. Devlin spat on the floor, but Arnaud ignored him as he marked Devlin’s forehead and both cheeks. Lastly, he ripped open Devlin’s tunic, and applied a final rune over his heart.

  The two guards who had stood passively at attention while Stephen’s flesh was cut from his body now looked distinctly uneasy. Their revulsion was matched by Devlin’s own. Blood magic was a custom of his own people, but the ritual bloodletting was tied to the remembrance of the dead and sacrifices of atonement. And then it was only your own blood that you shed. Using the blood of another to fuel your ritual was an unthinkable abomination.

  Returning to the sword, Arnaud placed both of his hands over the glowing stone. He closed his eyes and began a chant in his foreign tongue.

  Devlin’s head felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise. As Arnaud pressed down on the sword, it felt as if the weight of a thousand men bore down upon Devlin’s mind. Arnaud’s arms trembled with the strain and his voice shook, but still he continued his obscene rite. The pressure grew within Devlin until he knew that something must give way.

  The stone in the sword brightened, its dull red glow giving way to bright red, then yellow, and finally a white light. The light filled the room, blinding Devlin until he could see nothing else.

  His senses fled him. He no longer knew who he was or what was happening around him. All of his thoughts were consumed by the brilliant light that devoured him from within.

  He heard a clap of thunder, then was plunged into darkness.

  Sight returned to him, slowly, as did the knowledge of who he was. He was Devlin of Duncaer, the Chosen One. He blinked, and the room swam into focus around him.

  Arnaud lay slumped over the table, his eyes wide and unseeing. The two guards had crumpled to the floor, their weapons beside them.

  The spell must have gone wrong, somehow. Arnaud was dead or unconscious, while Devlin was still breathing. And in possession of his wits.

  He would never get a better chance for escape. He flexed his hands, wondering if it was possible to free himself. His left hand was still trapped but his right . . .

  He looked down. His right arm, which had been crushed, was now whole, and the three fingers of his hand were wrapped around the hilt of the Sword of Light. Burned clean of its obscene markings, the steel blade shone, while the stone in its pommel glowed, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

  It was the work of an instant to free himself. Crossing over to the fallen guards, he slit their throats in turn, ensuring they would raise no alarm.

  Then he moved back to the Prince. He dragged Arnaud off the table and secured him to the wooden torture chair, using the same ropes that had once held him. He tore a strip off his tunic and use
d it to fashion a gag.

  The sentries outside were apparently well used to the sound of a man screaming in agony, but should they hear their master’s voice, they might feel compelled to investigate.

  Returning to the table, Devlin examined the body of his friend. Stephen’s face was oddly peaceful, showing no sign of his final torment.

  Faint sounds alerted him that Arnaud had awakened.

  Devlin turned to face his captive. A wise man would use the opportunity to flee. At any moment one of Arnaud’s minions could step through the door and Devlin would be taken prisoner again. Logic urged him to kill the Prince swiftly and make his escape. It was his duty as the Chosen One.

  He set aside the Sword of Light and picked up the skinning knife, which was still stained with Stephen’s blood. Then he turned back to face his captive.

  Arnaud blinked as Devlin stroked the side of the Prince’s face, deliberating echoing how the Prince had treated him.

  “I promised to kill you slowly,” Devlin said. “And as Stephen told you, I always keep my promises.”

  Seventeen

  SOLVEIG STROLLED THROUGH THE MERCHANTS’ quarter, as she had done each third day since the bazaar had reopened with the spring. Upon reaching the great square with its myriad of small booths, she wandered as if aimlessly, pausing first at a booth that sold gaily colored necklaces, then allowing her eye to be caught by a display of hair ornaments and elaborately carved wooden combs. She lingered over a comb-and-brush set, made of rare woods from the islands and inlaid with pearl, before regretfully shaking her head and moving on.

  At the edge of her vision she saw a woman abruptly drop the belt she had been holding, then hurry to catch up with her. It was an insult to be followed by such a one. Then again, perhaps she should feel relieved that they considered her so little a threat that they assigned someone so inept to watch her.

  If that was her only watcher. For all she knew the woman could be a diversion, while a more skillful comrade was assigned the task of watching every movement she made and reporting the names of all those with whom she conversed.

  These days there was no privacy to be had. Living in Kingsholm was like living in a place with no walls. Every word said, every movement made was duly noted and reported. Even some of King Olafur’s most vocal supporters had developed nervous tics and the habit of looking around carefully before beginning a conversation. And it was little wonder. No one could be trusted. Anyone could be an informer. These days no proof was needed. A few whispered words of accusation, and the accused would find themselves confined to their apartments under guard. If they were lucky.

  Others disappeared for a few days, to the dungeons that all knew were below the palace but no one spoke of aloud. When one of these unfortunates reappeared, he or she was suitably chastened.

  Some disappeared and were never seen again.

  Like Captain Drakken. Most believed she had been executed for treason, killed in secret before those loyal to her had a chance to react. Embeth was now acting Captain of the Guard, and she refused to answer any questions about her predecessor.

  Solveig knew that Drakken had escaped, though it was hardly news that she could share. Drakken, her brother Stephen, and the others had last been seen at a stable just outside Kingsholm. Since then weeks had passed, and there had been no word.

  She did not even know what she hoped for. If they rescued Devlin, what would he do? Would he raise a rebellion in the east? Or would he return to Kingsholm and confront the cowardly King who had betrayed them all? Was it fair to place all of their hopes of deliverance upon the shoulders of a single man? Devlin had courage aplenty, along with a strong sense of justice. But he was also a man betrayed. Even if Devlin were freed, he might well decide to abandon Jorsk to its fate, just as the King had abandoned him.

  And if he did, she would not blame him. She, at least, remembered that Devlin was more than the title of Chosen One, more than the reluctant hero they had forced him to be. He was also a man, one entitled to make his own path, wherever that might lead. She admired Devlin, but she would not wish to trade places with him.

  She stopped for a moment to watch a juggler, who balanced precariously on stilts while tossing a half dozen brightly colored balls in the air. Children squealed in glee as one of the balls turned into a white bird that flew up into the air. Each ball in turn was transformed, until the final bird appeared, circling around him thrice before flying off.

  Solveig joined the applause and as he doffed his hat she tossed two coppers in it.

  “I had not thought such entertainment to your taste.”

  Solveig turned and saw that Councilor Arnulf had come to stand beside her while she had been absorbed in the juggler’s performance.

  “I admire all skilled artists,” Solveig said. She turned to walk away, and Arnulf fell into step beside her.

  Now this was an interesting development. The councilor was a pillar of the conservative faction of the court, well-known as King Olafur’s man. He was only of the minor nobility, but his bloodline could be traced to the earliest days of the Kingdom. And his family holdings were west of the Kalla River, in the heartland of Jorsk that had yet to be threatened by the invaders.

  Arnulf had opposed Devlin at every turn of the council, calling the Chosen One brash and impetuous. He had voted against allowing Devlin to send troops to defend the borderlands, insisting that they be kept in the garrisons, ready to defend the heart of the Kingdom. Of all people, she had expected Arnulf would be pleased with the status quo. Instead, he had seemed increasingly unhappy and distracted.

  “What brings you to the market this day?” she asked.

  “This and that,” Arnulf said. “And yourself?”

  “The Princess’s birthday approaches and I must find a suitable gift,” Solveig said. “As my father’s representative in Kingsholm, it is up to me to find a gift worthy of the people of Esker.”

  Arnulf frowned. “Yes, of course. With all the, err, changes, I had nearly forgotten.”

  Now this was interesting. A veteran courtier like Arnulf should not have forgotten such an important occasion. The Princess’s birthday was an opportunity to curry favor with the King. And with Ragenilda seemingly destined to be the wife of a Selvarat prince, any slight to her would be seen as a slight to their new masters.

  “If you would be so kind, I would appreciate your advice on a gift I was considering,” Solveig said, pitching her voice loudly enough to be heard by their watchers.

  “I am at your service,” Arnulf said. He extended his arm, and she placed her hand upon it. She guided him back to the cart where she had seen the brush-and-comb set.

  Arnulf picked up the brush in his hand and turned it over consideringly, tracing the pearl inlay with the tip of one finger. “My daughters would have liked such a thing. When they were younger,” he said softly.

  “And how are your daughters these days?” she asked, her voice equally low.

  “I had word from Kallarne the other day. Lynnheid’s troops returned to the garrison, but she was not with them,” he said. He glanced around, before handing the brush to her. “She, along with a number of the other officers, was asked to remain behind to advise the Selvarat forces.”

  “I see,” Solveig said.

  So Junior Troop Captain Lynnheid Arnulfsdatter was a hostage. She was not the first that Solveig had heard of. Major Mikkelson had not returned with his troops, and there had been no word from him. Others of his key staff had failed to return as well. Solveig had mentioned their absence in passing to Marshal Olvarrson, who had explained that he had detached a small number of officers who would be advising their new allies.

  Most of the court seemed to accept his explanation or knew better than to question it. No one mentioned the obvious. The officers chosen to stay behind had been selected not for their rank or knowledge but because of their bloodlines. Indeed the officer corps of the Royal Army was drawn from the noble families. Those who had no prospect of inheriting great wealth or
noble titles, but who were nonetheless family. Which made them ideal hostages to ensure the compliance of their noble kin.

  Like Lynnheid, Arnulf’s youngest daughter.

  “You must be proud of your daughter,” Solveig said. “I am certain the Selvarats will value her advice.”

  Arnulf shook his head. “She is a child.”

  “She is a junior captain of troops,” Selvarat countered. It was the next rank above an ensign, meaning that she had at least forty soldiers under her command. True, like most officers in the army she no doubt owed her position to her father’s rank rather than her own skill, but that did not change her responsibilities. It was too late for her father to protect her.

  “If you could speak to the ambassador, explain to him that Lynnheid is of more value at home, I would be in your debt.”

  “Have you pled your case to the count yourself?”

  “He refused to grant me a private audience,” Arnulf confessed. “But he will listen to you.”

  Solveig spread her hands. “I think you overestimate my influence with Count Magaharan,” she said. Picking up the brush and comb, she gestured for the stall owner, who had been attending to other customers while they conversed.

  “A silver latt, you said?”

  “Three,” the woman replied, with a smile, ready to bargain.

  “They are fine but—” Solveig began.

  “Done,” Arnulf said. He pulled his purse from out of his belt and rooted through it till he found three silver latts, which he pressed into the hand of the merchant, who blinked with astonishment before closing her fist tightly around the coins.

  The merchant wrapped the brush and comb set carefully in a scrap of velvet before placing them inside a carved wooden case. She tried to give the case to Arnulf but he waved his hand, so the trader gave it to Solveig instead.