Devlin's Justice (18 page)

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 days 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.

Slowly, as if he were stretching each moment out, Arnaud crossed the few feet that separated him from Devlin. He held the glowing metal in front of Devlin’s face, so close that Devlin could feel the heat rising from it.

“Remember you can end this at any moment. Swear to me your allegiance, and it will all be over.”

“You know that it is not possible,” Devlin said.

“So I intend to find out,” Arnaud countered. “It should be a fascinating experiment.”

With that he released the tongs, and the metal weight fell on Devlin’s right thigh. The first impact was not unbearable, but then the metal burned through the leather and touched the skin beneath.

Sweat broke out on his forehead, and Devlin ground his teeth together as he struggled not to scream. The smell of seared flesh filled his nostrils, and his blood pounded in his ears. He twitched the muscles of his leg, but it was firmly bound and he could not shift the burning metal.

She had known this would happen, he realized. The lieutenant had not bound him in order to ensure that he would not try to attack Prince Arnaud. She had trussed him up like an animal awaiting the slaughter.

“Shall we try another?” Arnaud asked.

He did not wait for Devlin’s response, and in far too short a time a second glowing chunk of iron was suspended over Devlin’s body.

“You can burn the flesh from my bones,” Devlin panted. “But my answer will be the same.”

“You repeat yourself,” Arnaud said. He walked behind Devlin and pressed the burning metal against the back of Devlin’s neck.

Devlin gasped in pain and tears began to stream from his eyes. His body bore its share of burn scars from his days as a metalsmith. But the wounds caused by a splash of molten metal or a careless touch were far different from what he felt at the Prince’s hand. This was a deliberate attempt to inflict the maximum amount of pain upon another human being.

“Tell me, Chosen One, whom do you hate more? Me for torturing you? Or your King for his betrayal?”

Twelve

“W
HAT IS YOUR PLAN?
”
D
IDRIK ASKED.

Captain Drakken leaned forward and added another branch to the fire, which hissed as the rain-soaked wood was added, before settling down to a sullen burn. She adjusted the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, then stretched her hands out to the feeble warmth of the flames.

They had pushed themselves hard in the days since the four of them had fled Kingsholm, traveling the main roads when they must and taking the smaller country paths whenever they could. There had been no time for leisurely discussions. But just after dark they had reached this creek. Swollen with spring rains, it was too dangerous to ford in the dark, so reluctantly they had made camp for the night.

Her body craved sleep, but she ignored its demands, just as she ignored the other discomforts of the journey. Rest would come later, after she had accomplished her mission.

“What do you intend?” Didrik’s tone was respectful, but it was clear that he expected an answer.

Didrik had changed. He still called her captain and looked to her for orders, but he no longer did so unquestioningly. In time he might make a decent captain himself. If he lived that long.

Seated on the opposite side of the campfire, Oluva and Stephen leaned forward, waiting to hear her answer.

“We will go to Korinth, or wherever the axe leads us,” Captain Drakken said. “We will find Devlin, free him, then deal with the Selvarat invaders.”

“That’s it? That is your plan?” Didrik’s voice rose in incredulity.

She grinned. “Do you have a better one?”

He shook his head. “For all we know, Devlin is surrounded by an army. What do you expect the four of us to do?”

“We will do what we must,” she said.

“I wish you had recruited others. Behra, Signy, I can think of at least a dozen who would have begged to join us,” Didrik said.

“The smaller the party, the greater our chance of passing unnoticed,” Captain Drakken said. “The risk was not worth it. Four swords or twelve, we will do what must be done.”

“We are not as friendless as you think,” Oluva chimed in. “There are many in Korinth who know my face and will be willing to take up arms to free the Chosen One.”

Didrik nodded grudgingly. “Any help is good, but if we had trained guards—”

“We have what we have,” Drakken said sharply. “And Oluva’s peasants may yet surprise you.”

Korinth had long been troubled by sea raiders, and while the King had done nothing to protect them, Devlin had sent Oluva and Sergeant Henrik to travel among the coastal villages, teaching the natives the rudiments of defense. Such actions had shocked the King and his court, who feared that armed peasants would rise up against their overlords. King Olafur had forbid Devlin to train any more armies of the people, but in Korinth he could not undo what had been done. Hundreds of folk had been trained to defend themselves.

It was for this reason that Drakken had asked Oluva to accompany her when she left the city. Oluva had agreed, and had duly been arrested as Drakken’s so-called accomplice. It was not till they had made their escape that Oluva had learned the true reason for the journey. She, along with those who had helped Drakken escape, only knew part of the truth—that the King no longer trusted Drakken to be Captain of the Guard, and that her life was in danger. Only Embeth had been told the full truth, that Devlin was still alive and Drakken intended to find and free him.