Devlin's Justice (27 page)

Magaharan was silent for a long moment, apparently in contemplation. “I suppose I could make inquiries,” he said.

“If there is anything you can do, I would be in your debt,” she said.

“And Arnulf would be in yours,” he said with a thin smile.

“Precisely.” She returned the smile with one of her own. It was a pleasure to converse with one who knew how the games of court were played.

“Your friends have changed,” Magaharan observed. “Arnulf is a member of the King’s faction in the court, is he not? While not so long ago you had backed the Chosen One and his radical friends.”

Magaharan was not the only one who wondered about her seeming change of heart.

“Esker needs a strong ally in the court. Devlin had potential. He rose from nothing to General of the Royal Army. There was power to be had, but he did not know how to use it. He squandered his political capital, then disappeared on another of his strange quests, taking my brother with him.”

Her tone was angry, and she knew Magaharan would assume that she blamed Devlin for the loss of her brother, who was widely presumed to have been killed by the same thieves who had taken Devlin’s life.

“In times of trouble, it is good to have powerful friends,” Magaharan said. “Just as your King has seen the advantage of our alliance.”

“The protectorate is a bold move. Prince Arnaud has secured the east, but there may be opportunities to extend your influence,” Solveig said.

Count Magaharan raised one eyebrow.

“It has been said that Esker is the key to holding the northwestern lands. My father has not used his influence, but then again, he was never much for the court. I, on the other hand, can see quite clearly the advantages to be gained by forming a personal alliance.”

“Your sister Madrene—”

“My sister is beautiful, but she is not my father’s heir,” Solveig said sharply. “Nor does she have the trust of our people. But I am known there—I have ridden border patrols, supervised the tax collection, and passed judgment in my father’s name. When the time comes, may it be long hence, the people will accept me as their Baroness. And my husband.”

“You have given this matter much thought,” Count Magaharan said.

“An idle fancy, only, and hardly worth the breath to mention,” Solveig said. The seed had been planted; now it was time to change the subject lest she appear too eager. “Come now, tell me what other news you have to share. Have you decided if your horse will run in the summer races? I hear that Lady Vendela’s son has trained a fine colt, who he claims will astonish us all.”

Count Magaharan followed her lead, and they spoke of trifles until it was time for her to take her leave.

She knew she had given him much to think about. Only the most foolish believed that the Selvarats would be satisfied with ruling the eastern provinces under their so-called protectorate. It seemed inevitable that once they consolidated their power, they would seek to extend their rule to the rest of Jorsk.

But wars could be drawn-out and costly affairs. If the northwestern provinces could be made to see the advantage of a Selvarat alliance, say if one of their leaders was married to a Selvarat noble, then the central kingdom would be surrounded on both sides. King Olafur would have no choice but to surrender.

Not that she had any intention of going through with such a match. But she had dangled the idea in front of the ambassador. It would be interesting to see how quickly he would rise to the bait. If he were anxious for the alliance, it would reveal much about the state of the Selvarat plans.

She knew it was a dangerous game she played. She should be safe as long as everyone believed that she was allied to the Selvarat cause. But the moment anyone saw through the deception, she would have to flee for her life. It was just a question of how long she could play the game and whether Devlin would return before she was forced to reveal her true allegiances.

And if Devlin did not return? If, after all, the rescuers arrived too late to save him? She prayed each night for his safety and that of her brother, but if her worst fears came true, then it would be up to her to do what must be done. She would find the strength within herself to do whatever was necessary, to secure the future of her people.

Eighteen

A
S
D
EVLIN FED THE FIRE A SLENDER PINE
branch, it hissed and snapped before settling down to a sullen burn. It was a small fire, not large enough to provide any true warmth: But it was familiar, and comforting in its way. Fire was an old friend. Hearth fire, forge fire, or one of the countless campfires from his travels, they were all part of a thread that tied him to his past.

He held his hands out to the blaze. He had scrubbed them in a stream earlier, but they were still stained red with the Prince’s blood. Arnaud had taken a long time to die. He’d held on to his defiance far longer than Devlin expected, but in the end he’d broken. He’d spilled his secrets, until Devlin could no longer think of any more questions to ask. Even then he did not stop. Consumed by his need for vengeance, Devlin had continued until each wound the Prince had inflicted upon Stephen had been repaid a dozen times over.

It should not have been an easy thing, to torture a man to death, but Devlin had done it without hesitation. A dark part of him had enjoyed seeing the Prince suffer, victim of the same torments he had so callously inflicted on others.

Some would call it justice; Devlin knew better. It had not been about justice. It had been revenge. A just man would have executed Arnaud for his crimes, leaving the judgment of his soul to Haakon, Lord of the Dread Realm. But Devlin had no faith in the Gods. He had executed his own judgment, ensuring that Arnaud’s final hours were spent in agony and humiliation.

Devlin did not regret what he had done, but he wondered what he had become that he was capable of such a deed.

Two years ago a simple metalsmith, half-crazed with grief, had walked into Kingsholm and presented himself as candidate for Chosen One. A year later, after exposing the traitor Gerhard, the same man had been named General of the Royal Army and a trusted advisor to the King.

Now, he did not know who he was. Was he still the Chosen One? The King he had sworn to serve had betrayed him, handing him over to their enemies. He had forsaken any claim he might have on Devlin’s loyalties. What honor was there to be found in obeying oaths given to one who had proven faithless?

Devlin leaned back against a tree, tucking his hands under the borrowed cloak. He stretched his legs out before him, wincing as his feet protested their too small boots.

After he had killed Arnaud, he had stripped the bodies of the Prince and the two guards, taking whatever he could use. He had ill-fitting boots, a slightly better fitting cloak, three daggers, and a pouch containing a generous handful of coins along with flint and steel.

And, of course, the Sword of Light. It was quiet, but earlier it had blazed with white fire as he had struck down the soldier who’d had the ill fortune to come across Devlin as he was making his escape. He’d expected to have to battle his way free, but luck had been with him. There’d been only one witness to his hasty departure, and Devlin had hidden his body where it would not soon be found.

By now someone among the Prince’s followers would have summoned the courage to interrupt their lord at his sport and discovered his mutilated corpse. Devlin had a head start, but his advantage would not last. By dawn the woods might well be crawling with soldiers summoned from the nearby encampment.

By dawn he would have to have a plan. And a destination.

He could hunt for food, though that would slow him down. Or he could venture out of hiding and purchase food from a farmstead or village, weighing speed against the risk of discovery.

He had no maps, but he knew he was in Korinth, near the border with Rosmaar. These lands were held by the occupying troops, who controlled the Great Southern Road and all the territories that lay to the east. His pursuers would expect him to head west, to the safety of Rosmaar and of lands still controlled by Jorsk. They would concentrate their patrols along that border, fearful that Devlin would return to Kingsholm and rally an army against the invaders. They would be looking for a legend, a champion on horseback, making all haste to return to his duties.

They would not expect him to head south. He had traveled on foot before, and he knew how to set aside hunger, when needs must. A solitary traveler might well slip past their patrols. Even if he had to walk the entire way, he could be in Duncaer before the harvest.

It was up to Devlin to choose. It had taken him some time to realize that he had choices, once again. It was not until he had reached the relative safety of the forest and set camp for the night that he understood what he was missing. For two years the Geas had been a familiar presence in his mind. At times it slumbered, other times it called to him, urging him onward, letting him think of nothing but his duty and his oaths to his King.

Arnaud’s final spell must have destroyed the Geas. Rather than mastering the spell, he had unleashed magics that rendered him unconscious, and Devlin had taken him prisoner before he had a chance to recover.

Now Devlin was free. Not simply free from his captor, but free for the first time in two years. He was once again a man, able to choose his own fate.

Devlin had served the people of Jorsk to the very limits of human endurance and beyond. He had battled monsters for them, brought justice to evildoers, and foiled a planned invasion. His maimed right hand bore testament to the duel which he had fought to expose Duke Gerhard as a traitor. Time and again Devlin had shed his blood for these people.

He owed them nothing. He could walk away and return to his homeland, where he had kin who would welcome him back. Not as the Chosen One but simply as a friend. He could no longer practice metalcraft, but he could still teach others. Or if his guild refused him, then surely he could find some work to turn his hand to. Honest work, which did not leave a bitter taste in his mouth or an emptiness in his soul.

There was nothing holding him in Jorsk. No reason to stay.

But there was one who would never understand why Devlin had resigned his post as Chosen One.

Stephen would expect better from him. Stephen, who even now, could be hunting for his friend.

After ripping out the Prince’s heart, Devlin had crouched over Arnaud’s body, watching as the life faded from him. Only when he was certain that Arnaud was truly dead had he risen. And then he had glimpsed the table where Stephen’s body lay.

But it was not Stephen who lay there. The murdered youth bore a passing resemblance to Stephen, but his hair was blond instead of light brown, and what skin could be seen was the weathered tan of a farmer who worked bareback in the fields.

Somehow the Prince had enchanted him to resemble Stephen. He had used his knowledge of the minstrel, drawn from Devlin’s own mind, to shape his form and his speech. Devlin had seen what he expected to see and heard what he had expected to hear. Only with the Prince’s death was the enchantment broken.

Robbed of his semblance, his voice, and even his ability to speak his own final words, the nameless youth had died. Devlin had closed his sightless eyes and covered him with the Prince’s own robe, as a sign of respect. He could do no more. He doubted the Prince’s servants would think to give the boy a decent burial. And somewhere a peasant family waited anxiously for a son who would never return.

Arnaud had been mad for power and heedless of the damage he inflicted upon others in his quest. Though these provinces had been occupied only a few short months, it was likely that the nameless youth was not the first victim of the Prince’s madness. Devlin had come to know the people of this region last year, when he had traveled through Korinth. Downtrodden under an unjust lord and suffering from the so-called coastal raiders, at first they had appeared defeated. Sheep, waiting placidly for their slaughter.

Then he had met Magnilda, who had murdered a tax collector in a misguided attempt to protect her village. And her father, Magnus the village speaker, who had confessed to the deed and taken upon himself the death sentence that the law required. Magnus had been a brave man, and his daughter was equally brave, if hot-tempered.

He wondered what had happened to Magnilda and the village she now led. Had they accepted their new masters, uncaring whether they swore allegiance to an empress or a king? Or had they resisted the invaders, using the skills that Devlin had tried to teach them? How had they fared under Arnaud’s rule? What would happen to them as the Selvarats brought in reinforcements and tightened their grip upon their newest possession? Would they be dispossessed from their lands as Arnaud had hinted?

The murdered youth could well be one of Magnilda’s folk. It was a sobering thought, and Devlin regretted once again that he had no name to give the boy, no means to tell his kin of his fate. Arnaud might have wielded the blade, but Devlin felt responsible for his death.

Once he had known what it was to be an honorable man. Then his life had been simple. Duty to family and kin. Duty to craft and those tied by the bonds of friendship. Now, who was he? Where did his duty lie?