Devlin's Justice (23 page)

As they approached their destination, he saw that there was just one sentry guarding the tent rather than the pair he had seen earlier. He tried to take that as a sign that luck was with them, but the churning of his stomach told of his own misgivings. His steps slowed, conscious that everything depended on what he did next. Why had he agreed to this? He was a minstrel, not a warrior. If he made a mistake, it could well cost Devlin his chance at freedom.

But there was no one else. And there was no time to change the plan. By now Drakken and Didrik should already be in the camp, having entered through the west side where the provisions were kept. They could not linger there without risking exposure. It was now or never.

Oluva squeezed his arm reassuringly.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He gave her backside a pat, then, hidden by her wide skirts, he reached his hand into the slit in his cloak and withdrew his dagger. He had not seen her move, but knew that she would already have her own knife at hand.

“Halt,” the sentry said, as they approached.

Stephen gave Oluva a push away from him, watching as she pouted. She would have made a fine member of a players troupe. The sentry was so busy paying attention to her that he did not notice that Stephen had come up on his right side, while Oluva was now on his left.

“I’ve brought a treat for Major Willem. Compliments of the village headwoman or whatever she calls herself,” Stephen said.

“His tent is over there,” the sentry said, pointing off to his left. “Next to the general’s, where it ought to be.”

“Sorry,” Stephen said easily.

Oluva smiled. “He’s a handsome one. I’ll take him on when the Major’s done,” she said.

The sentry took a step backward. “What did she say?”

Stephen obligingly translated.

The sentry shook his head. “I don’t hold with such trash, and neither will the Major,” he said.

Oblivious to the insult, Oluva leaned forward and ran one hand along the sentry’s arm.

As he flinched, Stephen stepped forward and slid his knife between the sentry’s ribs. His body jerked and he opened his mouth to cry out, but Oluva covered his mouth with her own, holding him in a grisly embrace.

Stephen twisted his dagger, then withdrew it. Blood gushed over his hand. Pocketing the dagger, he held open the tent flap as Oluva dragged the dying sentry within. Stephen closed the tent flap and took the sentry’s place. He wiped his right hand against the dark wool cloak, but he could still feel the man’s blood on his hand.

An eternity passed before he heard the rustle of the tent flap behind him, and Oluva stepped out, followed by a tall figure wearing the spare cloak that she had concealed under her voluminous skirts.

“Hurry,” Oluva said. “We’ve not much time.”

Stephen turned and looked into the face of Major Mikkelson.

Fifteen

A
FTER A FITFUL NIGHT
’
S REST,
D
EVLIN WAS
roused shortly after dawn and brought before the Prince. His heart quickened as his escort stopped in front of the room where he had been tortured. Through the open door he could see that Prince Arnaud was already within, sipping from a mug of kava while a servingwoman cleared away the remnants of his breakfast. As she carried the tray past Devlin, the smell made his stomach rumble. He had scarcely eaten last night, and had been given no food this morning.

The Prince glanced at Devlin, then turned his attention back to the scroll that lay partially unrolled on the table before him. It was the opportunity Devlin had been looking for. If he could catch the Prince unaware, he could break his neck or choke him to death before the guards had a chance to intervene. The Prince had the build of a duelist, but Devlin had the muscles that came from a lifetime of hard labor. In close quarters, with the Prince apparently unarmed, Devlin would have the advantage.

And even if Devlin failed in his attack on the Prince, the odds were good that the Prince’s guards would be forced to kill Devlin to save the life of their liege. Either way, Devlin would win.

He knew his escort expected him to hesitate, so Devlin took three quick steps into the room. He gathered himself for a leap, only to find himself brought short as he was seized from behind by one of the guards.

“Careful, my friend,” Prince Arnaud said. “Remember their orders.”

Disappointment was bitter upon his tongue. If he had been a bit quicker . . .

Arnaud turned slowly to face him, seeming unconcerned by Devlin’s aborted lunge.

“I suppose this means that you are refusing my offer? You’d rather die than experience life as a free man again?”

“I will not agree to help you. I cannot,” Devlin said.

Prince Arnaud rose. “But you can. Or rather you did. You already invited me into your mind once, when you performed your quaint ritual. Then my power was limited by the distance between us. Now, if you reenact the ritual in my presence, I could enter and take apart the Geas spell strand by strand until you were once again free.”

Devlin shivered. The Geas spell was an unclean magic, but what Arnaud proposed was even worse. It was a sign of his perversion that he could speak so lightly of violating Devlin’s soul.

“My answer is unchanged. I will not help you build an army of spellbound warriors.”

He would not wish the hell of the Geas on any other living being. Nor could he give such a weapon into the hands of Jorsk’s enemies.

Prince Arnaud shook his head in mock sorrow. “I had hoped to spare you this,” he said.

He gestured to the men holding Devlin, who once again secured Devlin in the heavy wooden chair. They bound him tightly, as if to make up for their earlier misjudgment, and Devlin felt his hands begin to tingle from lack of blood.

Arnaud walked around Devlin, checking the security of his bonds, then stood once more in front of him. “Still, your resistance does provide one pleasure. I look forward to the day that my men are as loyal to me as you are to your treacherous King.”

“And I look forward to the day that Haakon claims your rotted soul,” Devlin replied.

The nearest guard scowled at Devlin, but Arnaud did not react. He dismissed the guards, who closed the door behind them.

Devlin deliberately relaxed his muscles and slowed his breathing, bracing himself for what was to come. Surely Arnaud already realized that he could not be broken by torture. Another round of torments would do nothing to change his mind.

Arnaud stretched his right hand out and placed the palm of his hand on the center of Devlin’s forehead. Devlin jerked his head to the side, but with his free hand Arnaud held his skull steady. His gaze caught and held Devlin’s, who stared back, locked in a contest of wills.

The third finger of Devlin’s left hand began to burn, and Devlin looked down to see that his ring was glowing. A warning that sorcery was being practiced. But if so, it was no magic that Devlin had ever seen before. There was no invocation of the Gods, no ritual offerings, none of the paraphernalia that Devlin associated with magic. Just the feeling of power in the air, his skin tingling as if he stood outside in a lightning storm.

Arnaud jerked Devlin’s hair, and his gaze once again rose to meet the Prince’s dark eyes. Arnaud stared at Devlin as if he could somehow see inside him, and Devlin fought the urge to close his own eyes in superstitious dread. The tingling of his hands had now spread to his legs as well, and he could feel the numbness rising through his body. He could hear no sound except the harsh rasping of his own breath, and even that grew fainter. He could no longer feel any part of his body. His head swam, and Devlin’s sight grew dim until he could see only blackness. All sound had fled. He screamed, or rather he tried to scream, but there was only silence.

With dawning horror, the full extent of his predicament sank in. Arnaud had sent him to hell.

The first thing he became aware of was the slow in-and-out motion of his breath. He focused on the sound, clinging to this proof that he still lived. Then sensation began to return to his limbs, a strange warmth that burned as it awakened nerves that had fallen silent. With agonizing slowness his body once more became his own, and at last he was able to open his eyes.

He raised his head, fighting weakened muscles that did not want to obey and the nausea that rose within him. Exhaustion warred with a lingering terror as he wondered just what changes Arnaud and his sorceries had wrought.

“Your mage is better than I thought,” Prince Arnaud observed. He was seated at the table, a large tome propped open by his elbow. The Prince appeared fatigued, and there were shadows under his eyes, but his gaze was still hungry as he stared at Devlin. He regarded Devlin the way another man might look at a rare jewel or a beautiful companion. As something that he had to possess at all costs.

Devlin licked his dry lips, but said nothing. He would not give Arnaud any information that could be used against him.

“Will you open your mind to me and rid yourself of this spell?” Arnaud asked.

“No,” Devlin said instinctively. Then he smiled grimly as he realized what he had done. He had not hesitated for even a moment in giving his response. It had not been Devlin who had spoken. It had been the Geas. For all Arnaud’s efforts, the Geas was still intact.

Arnaud nodded to himself, as if unsurprised by Devlin’s answer.

“The spell is well guarded, but I will destroy those protections in time,” he said. “Each day I will chip away at them until the day when your mind is as open to me as this book.”

Devlin shivered involuntarily, earning him another of Arnaud’s mocking smiles. Rising from his seat, the Prince spared Devlin a final glance before leaving the room.

A short time later two mercenaries came in and untied Devlin from the chair. Weakened by his confinement and whatever the Prince had done to him, Devlin’s legs buckled and refused to take his weight. His gaolers had to drag him back to the room that had become his cell, where they dumped him on his bed.

Earlier he had thought to feign weakness, to trick his captors into letting down their guard. But this was no act. His arm muscles quivered and his legs ached as if he had been at hard labor for days. Whatever magic Arnaud practiced, it seemed the price was paid for out of his victim’s flesh.

Devlin slept for a time, then roused himself long enough to eat when a meal was brought. Grimly he exercised each limb in turn, until his body was once more his own to command. His gaolers watched, but did not interfere. Only then did he allow himself to fall asleep for the night.

When he rose the next day, he expected to be summoned once again to face the Prince. But as the day advanced and no summons came, Devlin’s anxiety turned to frustration. He was no nearer to escaping now than he had been on the first day of his captivity. And every day that he remained Arnaud’s captive only brought him closer to the day that Arnaud would succeed in his goal.

Devlin hurled insults at his captors, but they refused to respond to his taunts. When the watch changed, he tried his tactics on the new guards but they proved equally unflappable. Veterans, by the look of them, and too afraid of Prince Arnaud to risk incurring his wrath.

The next day, the Prince sent for Devlin. This time he knew what to expect, but he still felt fear when the world disappeared and he fell into the black and soundless void. This time Arnaud allowed him to retain the sensations of the world around him, but that turned out to be no mercy. Within moments he felt the first wave of crushing power, squeezing the very bones within him. As the pressure grew he wondered dimly why he was still alive. He knew he could not endure a moment longer, and then the pressure increased.

It was past noon when Devlin opened his eyes. He did not know if his torment had indeed lasted hours or if it had taken him that long to recover.

It was small consolation to see that Arnaud, too, appeared worn, with grim lines around his mouth. This time the Prince did not boast of his powers, but merely ordered Devlin taken away.

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.