Murchadh’s eyes swept over him, as if to catalog the changes that time had wrought. Devlin held himself steady under their regard, though inside he was anything but calm. He tucked the thumb of his crippled hand into his sword belt.
Murchadh drew in a sharp breath. “A sword? You came here bearing weapons, as if to the house of one without honor? Have you no shame? What kind of man are you?”
A very good question. For one who was neither peacekeeper nor soldier, to enter a man’s home openly displaying a weapon was tantamount to declaring your host without honor. An insult worthy of challenge.
In his former life Devlin would never have made such a mistake. But since becoming Chosen One, Devlin had grown accustomed to his life being at risk, and the need to carry a weapon at all times. In addition to the sword, he had two throwing knives hidden in forearm sheaths and a dagger tucked in the top of his left boot. The only thing he had left behind at the inn was his great axe.
But he had not worn the weapons because he had a right to them as the General of the Royal Army. He had worn them because it had not occurred to him to do otherwise. It was just another sign of how far he had drifted from the ways of his people.
“I meant no insult. I am a soldier now, as you must have heard.”
“Your presence here is an insult,” Murchadh said. “And no matter what they call you these days, it does not give you the right to come into my forge.”
“For the sake of our past friendship—”
“What friendship? I thought I knew you once, but then you forsook your craft. You left it behind, as if it were nothing, then turned your back on your kin and those who had called you friend.” Murchadh’s face was flushed with anger, but his voice was cold.
It was the old argument, made a hundred times worse by what had followed. Murchadh had never understood Devlin’s decision to give up his promising career as a metalsmith in favor of the life of a homesteader in the New Territories. He had argued passionately against such a move. If only Devlin had listened to him, Cerrie and Lyssa might well be alive.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps it had always been their fate that they would die, to ensure Devlin would be driven to become the Chosen One, a pawn of those forces that would see the Sword of Light returned to Kingsholm. No matter what the cost.
He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. Now was not the time for fruitless speculation.
“I yield all claims of friendship. But, in the name of the debt you still owe me, I need the answer to a question. One question, and then I will leave, and all will be finished between us.”
He held his breath. Such a demand was within the code that governed their people, and yet Murchadh was stubborn enough to refuse. And if he did so, Devlin did not know what he would do. As Chosen One, he could compel the obedience of any citizen of Jorsk, including those of conquered Duncaer. Those who refused would face judgment. Murchadh could be fined, or imprisoned if Devlin so chose. But the thought of using this power against one who had been his friend left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“One question. If it is within my power,” Murchadh agreed.
“When your uncle Roric died, what happened to the sword he held? The one from Ynnis?”
News of Roric’s death had reached Devlin in the New Territories, but there had been no mention of the sword. At the time it had not occurred to him to wonder.
“The sword was left in the guild hall. To be held in trust for you, on the day you should return.”
Devlin sighed. He had half hoped that the sword would be here. Murchadh was his uncle’s heir, after all. Then it would have been simply a matter of persuading Murchadh to relinquish the sword. He should have known that nothing about this quest would be easy. Now, rather than returning to Kingsholm, he must journey onward into Alvaren, to the place he once called home.
He wondered why Roric had left the sword to him. Had it been a whim of his final days? Had it been his intention all along to leave the sword to his favorite student? Or had there been other influences at work? The same influences that had conspired to turn a onetime farmer into an instrument of justice?
He pushed the thought ruthlessly from his mind. He could not change the past. Nor could he change who he was. Though he loathed the very idea of the sword, in the end what he felt mattered for nothing. He was the Chosen One, and the path to his duty was clear.
“I thank you for your courtesy,” he said. “I will leave now and trouble you no more.”
Devlin turned and took a step toward the door.
“Wait,” Murchadh called.
Devlin turned back as Murchadh approached, waiting until they were only an arm’s length apart. Close enough that he could see the beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of Murchadh’s eyes, which stared at him with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion.
“You put claim on past friendship, and now I claim the same right. Last time we met I asked you a question and you did not answer.”
Devlin nodded once, already certain he knew what the question was.
“Did you kill them?”
For a moment, he was swept back in time. Nearly two years ago, he had stood in the square outside as Murchadh had given voice to his anger. Then Devlin had simply turned and walked away, for there had been no answer he could give.
There was still no answer, but he owed it to Murchadh to explain what he could.
“I do not know,” he said.
The color drained from Murchadh’s face. “I do not believe you,” he whispered.
Devlin reached for him, then paused, letting his hand drop back to his side. “They did not die at my hands. Nor was I there when they were attacked, though I know Agneta tells a different tale. But am I responsible for their deaths? To that I fear the answer is yes. And for that, you were right to blame me.”
With that he turned and walked out of the forge. He had taken but a handful of steps when he heard Murchadh calling his name.
“Devlin! Wait!”
He stiffened his shoulders and kept walking.
“For Egil’s sake, wait.”
He heard Murchadh’s voice, quite near, then a hand grabbed his left arm. He allowed himself to be spun around, to face his old friend.
“I swore to myself I would not do this. For nigh unto two years I have cursed myself because I let you walk away once. I swore it would not happen again,” Murchadh said. “And now, as soon as I saw you, I let my temper get the best of me.”
He did not understand. “What do you want of me?”
“I want you to talk to me. As a friend.”
“We are no longer friends. You said so yourself.”
Murchadh dropped his gaze, but he still held firmly to Devlin’s arm. He took a deep breath and looked up. “I was angry. Just as I was that spring. I had thought of you as a brother, and yet suddenly I did not know who you were. We heard of Cerrie’s death from strangers. Strangers,” he repeated. “Months without word from you, while the tales we heard grew wilder. And then when you finally came here, you would not speak to me.”
It had been a dark time for him. After burying his family, Devlin had spent two months tracking down the banecats that killed them, and then weeks recovering from the wounds he had received when he had killed their leader. But destroying the banecats had brought him no peace, and so he had come to Kilbaran, searching for something he could not name. Only to find that even here, folk had already heard news of Devlin’s shame. They called him kinslayer, and a part of him agreed with their accusations.
When Murchadh had scorned him, it had been the final straw. Devlin had left Duncaer and set his feet on the path that would bring him to Kingsholm and to his destiny as Chosen One.
Devlin shook his arm free of Murchadh’s grasp.
“What did you expect me to say? Did you want me to tell you what their bodies looked like when I found them? How it felt to find my beautiful baby ripped to shreds? To have to tell my brother’s wife that she had lost both husband and son? Did you want to k
now how many nights I spent awake, tormented by the knowledge that if I had been there, I might have saved them?” Devlin’s voice broke and he struggled for breath.
“Yes. I would have listened as you shared your grief. Or I would have sat watch with you while you mourned in silence. I should not have let you run away so swiftly. I failed you, and proved myself a poor friend.”
The anger drained away as swiftly as it had arisen. What had passed between them was not Murchadh’s fault alone. Devlin, too, was to blame. He had done his best to push away any who sought to aid him.
“What was done was done. And you were right when you spoke earlier. I am not the same man that you once called friend.”
“Then give me the chance to know this new man. Come to dinner tonight. Alanna will never forgive me if I let you go from here without seeing her,” Murchadh said.
Devlin hesitated. A part of him wanted this. Wanted to see if he could reclaim a portion of his friendship with Murchadh. To make peace with a man who was bound up with so much of his past. But another part warned him that this would only bring heartache, reminding him of all that he had once had, that he would never have again.
“Please,” Murchadh said.
“I have two friends who journey with me. Stephen, a minstrel, and Lieutenant Didrik, who serves as my aide.” It would not be right to leave them alone.
“Your friends will be welcome,” Murchadh assured him. It was a bold promise to make, for only a woman could offer hospitality. But then again Alanna was a generous soul, and Devlin had no doubt that she would treat his friends with all courtesy, regardless of their country of birth.
“Then I gladly accept,” Devlin said.
“Good.”
Murchadh held out his right hand in the clasp of friendship. Devlin hesitated, then took the smith’s hand with his own. He could see from the shock on Murchadh’s face the moment he recognized the uneven grip, and the missing fingers.
“In the name of the Seven, what have they done to you?”
Devlin smiled, but it held no mirth. “This I did to myself. Tell Alanna I look forward to seeing her at the evening meal.”
Didrik cooled his heels for nearly two hours, sitting in the antechamber outside the commander’s office while a steady stream of soldiers and petitioners passed in and out. The delay irked him, and he was tempted to reveal his identity so the commander would see him at once. But Devlin had requested that their mission be kept quiet, and so he held his tongue and waited his turn. He passed the time trying to guess their errands, speculating why none appeared particularly pleased when leaving the commander’s office.
At last he was the only one left. The clerk, after conferring with the person behind the closed door, motioned to him.
“Commander Willemson will see you now.”
Didrik rose, and reached absently for his sword belt to straighten it, only to remember that he had left his weapons with the door guard. He squared his shoulders and entered the commander’s office.
Garrison Commander Willemson was shorter than average, but his stocky build and heavily muscled arms indicated he would be a fierce opponent. He wore the field uniform of dark blue trimmed with crimson, and his tunic jacket was partially unbuttoned. He sat behind a small desk, which was covered with papers and a partially unrolled map.
“What brings a trader here in midwinter, Nils of Denvir? And what do you want from me?” Commander Willemson glanced up briefly, then returned his attention to the duty roster before him.
Didrik shut the door firmly behind him.
“I apologize for the ruse, but what I have to say is for your ears alone.”
The commander eyed him, but his gaze was unfriendly.
“If this is about the Children of Ynnis, then your information had better prove reliable or you will meet the same fate as your predecessor. I will not pay coin for stale marketplace gossip.”
“I am not here as an informant,” Didrik said. He reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the enameled badge that was the seal of his office. “I am Lieutenant Nils Didrik of the Kingsholm Guard—”
“Personal aide to the Chosen One,” Commander Willemson finished the sentence.
“Indeed.”
Commander Willemson rose to his feet. “And the Chosen One? Is he here?”
“He is in Kilbaran, yes.”
“Why? Why here? And why now?”
“May I sit?” Didrik asked.
The commander nodded, then waited as Didrik took his seat before resuming his own.
“What news have you heard from the capital?” Didrik asked. Devlin had warned him not to reveal too much of their mission, but before he could spin a plausible story, he had to know what the commander already knew.
“Only what all others have heard. That the Chosen One revealed Gerhard’s treachery and slew the duke in a duel. The King then named him King’s councilor and General of the Army.”
“That must have come as a surprise.”
Commander Willemson snorted. “A shock, more like. When the gossip first reached here, I thought it a jest. It was not till the royal messenger came with the official proclamation that we realized it was true. Half my officers were ready to resign that day.”
“Because of their love for the Duke?”
“Because we have dedicated our lives to keeping Duncaer pacified, only to find one of their own set above us. The troops were convinced that it would only be days before the General ordered the garrisons disbanded and control of Duncaer handed over to the rebels. It took all my skill to persuade them to stay at their posts.”
“But you knew better.”
“General or no, he still answers to the King. And King Olafur is not going to give up the prize his father won. No matter who leads the army these days.”
He supposed it was too much to ask that this man have faith in Devlin. After all, he had never met him. Still, Didrik would not allow Devlin’s character to be slighted.
“Devlin would never betray his oath. He is an honorable man, and you should be grateful to serve under him.”
The commander did not look convinced.
“So then, why has the Chosen One returned here? His presence can only be taken as a provocation. I have enough to do here, keeping order and catching smugglers.”
“Smugglers? These are the Children of Ynnis you mentioned?”
“No, the Children of Ynnis are rebels rumored to be hiding in the mountains, waiting for the moment when they will rise up and lead their people to freedom. But so far we have no proof of their presence, only rumors, and the tales of the mischief they have wrought in Alvaren.”
“Then why do you fear them?”
Commander Willemson looked grim. “Five years ago, my predecessor concerned herself with merchants trying to avoid taxes or those bringing in food stores without a license. But these days, when we catch smugglers, it is not food they carry, but weapons. Steel swords, transverse bolts, and the like.”
“And for every one that you catch—”
“Another two slip by us,” the commander agreed. “I have offered rewards for information on the Children of Ynnis, but not surprisingly the Caerfolk have kept their silence. The damn kin ties mean that everyone is someone’s brother or cousin, and no one will inform on their kin.”
This was a complication they did not need. Bad enough that they feared enemies might have followed them from Kingsholm. Now they had to worry about Devlin’s own countrymen. And to make matters worse, they were heading for Alvaren, the center of the unrest.
It would be too much to hope that they could pass unnoticed.
“Lord Devlin does not come here lightly, nor did he come here to add to your troubles,” Didrik said. “I am surprised that you had not heard of his journey.”
Commander Willemson shook his head. “I have heard nothing.”
“No one asking about the Chosen One? No newly arrived visitors who aroused your suspicions?”
“Nothing,” Commander Willemson sai
d. “The trading season is long over, and we keep a firm eye on newcomers who might start trouble. So far there has been nothing unusual. Nothing except the report of three out of season traders arriving last night, staying at the first guesthouse past the gate.”
This news should have reassured Didrik, but it did not. Devlin had enemies aplenty in Kingsholm, including whoever had arranged the ambush at the start of their trip. He had expected more trouble, yet there had been no further attempts. Could it be that they thought him no longer a threat, now that he was engaged upon this fool’s errand? Or was there something else brewing here?
At least there was one consolation. If Commander Willemson had not heard of Devlin’s journey, then presumably the rebels shared his ignorance. With the Gods’ own luck, they would be able to slip in and out of Alvaren before the mischief makers had time to react.
“Our visit is unofficial, and we will be gone on the morrow. We hope to leave before Devlin is recognized, which is why he did not come here himself.”
This was but a half-truth. Devlin had refused to meet with the commander, and indeed had not wanted to reveal their presence in the city. Didrik had argued long against the decision, pointing out that the commander would be insulted by Devlin’s refusal to meet with him. And they needed the commander’s help, for he would be in the best position to know if anyone was looking for Devlin or his party. In the end, Devlin had relented and allowed Didrik to be his emissary.
Devlin’s refusal to see reason was uncharacteristic of him. But he had been acting strange on this trip, and the closer they had come to Duncaer, the more he had drawn into himself. Not for the first time, Didrik wondered what Devlin had felt when he saw the soldiers guarding the gates into Kilbaran. Did he see them as troops under his command, obeying the orders of their commander and the King? Or did he see them through Caer eyes, as the representatives of those who had conquered his people?
“One would think the Chosen One had better things to do with his time than to jaunt about the countryside,” Willemson observed.
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