Didrik’s words held the sound of a man trying to convince himself.
“It is not merely the journey,” Stephen said. “Devlin could have killed you yesterday.”
“That was as much my fault as his. We are all on edge after what we have seen, and I startled him,” Didrik said loyally. “Next time I will be more careful.”
“Devlin has been under strain before, but never has he raised his hand against a friend. This is not the Geas. Or not the Geas alone,” Stephen said. “On the journey to Esker the Geas drove him nearly past reason, but he was not as he is now. And since that time, Master Dreng has shown him how to discipline its power.”
The Geas could drive Devlin to fulfill his duty with fanatic dedication, heedless of danger or of consequence. Under its influence Devlin the man could be consumed by Devlin the Chosen Champion of the Gods. It was a form of madness, and both Stephen and Didrik had witnessed its influence. But never before had they seen Devlin start at shadows, or hold one-sided conversations with someone who was not there.
“Could it be a spell of some sort? Though we have seen no one I recognized as a mage, perhaps in Kilbaran there might have been someone …” Didrik’s voice trailed off into silence.
“It is not a spell,” Stephen said. “The Geas serves to protect Devlin from mind-spells. That is why the mind-sorcerer sent a creature of darkness to attack us, rather than striking at Devlin directly.”
Didrik stared at him. “And you know this how?”
“I was curious about the creature, so I asked Master Dreng.”
Master Dreng had initially been reluctant to discuss either Devlin or the Geas spell, but after sharing three bottles of wine his tongue loosened and he spoke freely. Sadly, the fourth bottle had put him to sleep before he could answer all of Stephen’s questions.
“I would give ten years of my life for an hour of Master Dreng’s counsel. Only he knows the Geas spell and how this might be cured,” Didrik said. His hands closed into tight fists around the reins. “Or if not Dreng, then Captain Drakken. Anyone who could counsel us, and whose advice he might heed.”
Stephen sympathized with Didrik’s frustration, but he could not shake the feeling that Didrik was looking in the wrong place for answers. “What if this is not the Geas? What if it is something else? The strangeness began on Midwinter’s Eve.”
“And now we are back to your story. Were it anyone else, I would say they had drunk too much and imagined the whole thing.”
“I know what I saw,” Stephen insisted. “I saw her. Devlin’s murdered wife, Cerrie.”
Even days later, the memory of her made his pulse thrum, his heart quicken with wonder. He had thought the Caer tales of wandering spirits to be mere legends, and their annual rite of remembrance simply a memorial to those who had passed on. His offer to join Devlin had been made out of friendship. He had never even considered that there might be truth to the old tales. Not until the mist had risen and taken shape before his very eyes.
“She was beautiful,” Stephen said. Tall, and well-built, with the muscled arms and shoulders of a swordwielder. At first glance her features were plain, and then she had smiled and the merely ordinary became transfigured.
“What did she say?”
“She warned Devlin that he was in danger, from a source unsuspected to all.”
“Our long-sought traitor at the court. We never did find Duke Gerhard’s allies. Nor his paymaster,” Didrik interrupted.
That was true. But those were dangers they already knew of, even if they did not know the name of their enemy. Stephen could not shake the feeling that Cerrie had been trying to warn them of something else entirely.
“Cerrie mentioned the Dread Lord’s name, and Devlin grew angry. She continued to speak to him, but it was as if he did not hear her. He spoke, but his words made no sense. And then he fell to the ground unconscious. When I looked up again, Cerrie had vanished.”
The wonder of Cerrie’s appearance had been offset by the horror of Devlin’s collapse. It had taken Stephen several long moments to rouse his friend. When he did awaken, Devlin had muttered one word. Haakon. The Lord of the Dread Realm.
But then he had seemed to come back to himself. As Stephen had helped Devlin to his feet, Devlin had shaken off his friend’s concern, blaming his fainting on his weariness, coupled with the traditional fast. Stephen had allowed himself to be reassured. His concern for his friend had offset his eagerness to discuss what he had just seen, and he had allowed Devlin to seek his rest undisturbed.
The next morning, he heard Devlin speaking to someone, only to walk into the common room and find Devlin alone. At first he assumed that the other party had just left the room. But Devlin’s manner had been odd, and he had gruffly brushed off Stephen’s attempts to discuss the events of the night before.
Didrik, at least, had listened to Stephen’s tale. But he, too, had dismissed Stephen’s concerns, until they had both witnessed Devlin conversing with the empty air. Not once, not twice, but thrice.
And then, after they had left the ruined hamlet, Devlin had fallen into a deep reverie. When Didrik tried to rouse him from it, without warning Devlin had drawn steel and thrown a knife that barely missed striking Didrik. Rather than being horrified by his actions, Devlin had appeared angry. He blamed Didrik for startling him, and Didrik had agreed.
Later, when Didrik had asked Devlin if all were well, he had been firmly set in his place. There was a coldness about the eyes of the Chosen One that warned them not to push any further. They were all too well aware that they traveled with Devlin at his sufferance. Should they anger him, he could easily order them to leave. Not that they would obey such an order. But in any confrontation with Devlin, they were bound to lose. Should they refuse to obey his orders, he could easily have them imprisoned.
Such action should have been unthinkable. Devlin was their friend, and they had pledged their loyalty to him. But Stephen was no longer certain that Devlin was in control of his actions. There was no predicting what he might do.
“So what should we do now?” Stephen asked.
“Watch. Wait. This mood may pass as swiftly as it sprang up. Or perhaps he will come to himself once he holds the sword in his hands.”
“And if he does not?”
“Then I do not know,” Didrik replied. “We must put our trust in Devlin. And in the Gods. They have led him thus far; surely they will not abandon him now.”
Stephen had already prayed to the Gods, but that had brought little comfort. He thought again of the long leagues that separated them from his homeland, and from those who might aid Devlin. It would take nearly two months to make their return. And in this foreign place, he did not know whom he could trust to help them. He would have to trust to fate and luck to see them through.
“He is getting worse.”
A stray breeze brought Didrik’s words to his ears. Devlin shifted in the saddle but kept his posture relaxed, giving no sign that he knew he was the topic of Stephen and Didrik’s whispered conversation. He listened a moment longer, but either the wind had shifted or his friends had grown more cautious, for he heard no more.
They know. The voice echoed within his head. Even your friends can see that you are already mine.
“No,” Devlin said. He spoke the word aloud, not caring that his companions might take this as another sign of the strangeness that had infected him.
You should not trust them. They will try to stop you. Already they whisper between themselves, trying to change what cannot be changed, simply because they do not understand. They will thwart your efforts. You must leave them, or your mission will fail.
The voice was insidious, giving voice to the seeds of doubt that lingered deep within Devlin’s soul. The Geas did not understand friendship, but surely it understood that a solitary traveler was far more vulnerable than a small group? Alone he could fall victim to any number of hazards. Illness. Rockslides. An attack by creatures that walked on four legs or two.
And whi
le his companions were concerned, they knew of the Geas that drove him. Though they did not fully understand, that was not from lack of trying. No man could truly understand the force of the Geas unless his own will had been spellbound. Already it had driven him to do things that no sane man would attempt.
And now a new element had been added to the mix, for Haakon had added his own taunts to the relentless murmuring of the Geas. The strain of this new burden was tearing at the fabric of his mind, and the shreds of his control, with potentially deadly results.
Yesterday he had lashed out without thinking, and Didrik had nearly died because of his mistake. Only the lieutenant’s swift reflexes had enabled him to avoid the knife as it flew through the air at a target that only Devlin could see. If it had been Stephen riding there instead, he might well be dead.
And there was no explanation he could offer, for who would believe his story? They would think him mad, and he would not blame them.
It might be safer for them all if he sent Stephen and Didrik away from him. But he did not know if he could bear to be alone. Surely if he exerted all his will upon the task, he could prevent another deadly lapse of concentration.
He balled his left hand into a fist, feeling the warm metal encircling his second finger. He knew if he were to strip off his glove, he would find the stone within the ring was flickering with a dull red glow. And this, too, was new. Never before had the ring come to life without his bidding. He wondered if the ring sensed that they were nearing Alvaren, and the long lost Sword of Light.
Was the ring somehow linked to the sword? Master Dreng had never mentioned such a thing, but then again the sword had been lost for decades. Much of what had once been known was now the province of legend.
Stephen, of course, knew all the legends of the Chosen One. But any discussion of the ring would give Stephen a chance to question him about the Day of Remembrance, and Devlin had spent the past four days avoiding that discussion. He knew Stephen had seen Cerrie and heard her words of warning. But Stephen had not seen Haakon. The God’s message had been for Devlin alone, and Devlin saw no reason to reveal what he had seen.
Or what he thought he had seen. For while a part of him believed that he was indeed haunted by Haakon, another part of him whispered that the Lord of the Dread Realm would never condescend to speak with a mere mortal. That what Devlin had seen and heard had not been the God at all, but merely the symptoms of a growing madness.
There were two kinds of folk who heard voices when all others heard silence. Those who were touched by the Gods and those who had been driven to madness. And time alone would reveal the source of Devlin’s affliction.
When they reached the next inn, Devlin called a halt for the day, despite the fact that it was only the middle of the afternoon. Didrik and Stephen exchanged glances, but made no comment. After handing over his laundry to the inn-wife, Devlin went through his packs, carefully examining each piece of equipment. As always he saved his greatest care for his weapons. The assassins’ attack had reminded him he could not afford to take his safety for granted. The throwing knives were inspected and oiled before being replaced in their sheaths. The steel bolts for his transverse bow were counted and checked for signs of rust.
The simple routine of the tasks comforted him, for they spoke to a danger that was familiar. He could do nothing to defend himself against the spirit that taunted him. But opponents who were mere flesh could be brought down by sharp steel and a strong arm.
They were fortunate that their journey so far had been marred only by the one attempt on their lives. Constant vigilance since then had revealed no sign of their enemies. No shadowy figures following their trail, no ambushes in the deserted countryside. Perhaps they had outrun their pursuers. Perhaps they had chosen to ride ahead and lay in wait at Alvaren instead, rather than trying to determine which roads the travelers had chosen.
Or perhaps their enemies had realized that there was no point in trying to harm Devlin. They had no need to kill him, for he was already doomed. He would fail, as the voice within him whispered in moments of despair.
No, he vowed to himself. He would not fail. He would find the cursed sword and take it back to Jorsk. What matter whether he had chosen this path or it had been chosen for him? He had sworn a sacred oath, to serve as Chosen One and protect the people of Jorsk with every last ounce of his strength. Neither fickle Fates nor treacherous Gods would make him forswear that.
That evening, after they had dined, Devlin invited Stephen and Didrik to join him in his room. In a peace-making gesture he asked the inn-wife to provide a pitcher of wine. Stephen poured the dark red liquid into three goblets and handed them around. Devlin took a sip for politeness sake, then set his aside. His mind was restless enough, without befuddling it with drink.
“Tomorrow we will reach Alvaren,” Devlin said.
Didrik nodded. “So the inn-wife informed me.”
“Are you expecting trouble? Is that why you had us inspect our gear?” Stephen asked.
“A precaution, no more. But we must be on our guard. Through the years my people have learned to live in peace with the army and the Royal Governor. But I do not know how they will react when they hear the Chosen One is in their midst. At best they may scorn me as a traitor.”
“Or the Children of Ynnis may try to assassinate you, in hopes of sparking a rebellion,” Didrik said dryly.
It was possible, but Devlin doubted that the Children of Ynnis were organized enough to form a true rebellion. Such groups had risen and fallen with regularity in the years since Jorsk had conquered Duncaer. Usually they were composed of young men and women who gathered in taverns to drink and lament the lost glories of Duncaer. Rarely did they rouse themselves to more than the occasional act of mischief.
And when they did take it in their heads to commit violence, the consequences were swift and brutal. So the stalemate in Alvaren endured, and while the folk were not happy, both sides knew better than to risk the consequences of all-out warfare.
He doubted that anything had changed in the time he had been gone.
“With luck we should be in Alvaren only long enough to retrieve the sword and reprovision ourselves for the journey back to Kingsholm.”
“And you are certain this is the sword we seek,” Didrik said. It was not quite a question.
“It can be no other. Murchadh knew it as well as I, and told me that Master Roric had left the sword in trust for me at the guild hall. It is my inheritance.” The knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth that no wine could erase.
Didrik rubbed his chin thoughtfully, while Stephen appeared fascinated by the contents of his goblet. Neither of them could meet his gaze, and who could blame them? Each man liked to believe that he carved his own path in this world, yet the sword was evidence that Devlin’s fate had been sealed long ago.
“You said your people have no love for us. What if they refuse to give you the sword? What will you do then?”
Trust Stephen to give voice to Devlin’s most secret fear.
“By custom and law it is mine. They have no choice.”
“And if they refuse?” Stephen persisted.
“Then I will take it. By force if needed. That is why our first destination will be to call upon the governor. Out of courtesy to let him know that I am in his territory and to arrange the use of soldiers should I need them.”
Lord Kollinar, the Earl of Tiernach, was the Royal Governor of Duncaer and the commander of the occupying troops. As governor he took orders from the King. But as a Marshal he took orders from Devlin, in his role as General of the Royal Army. Dealing with Lord Kollinar would be tricky, especially given Devlin’s origin.
Lord Kollinar had governed Duncaer for the past dozen years. Early in his tenure he had gained a reputation for being hard but fair, enforcing Jorskian decrees but abstaining from cruelty. He had been widely praised for his efforts to open up the New Territories and offer those lands not to Jorskian settlers but rather to the land-starved Caerfo
lk. But the ill-fated settlements had cost the governor much of the goodwill his earlier acts had gained.
Devlin knew Lord Kollinar only by reputation. Court gossip held that the conservative faction had considered Lord Kollinar a political threat, and thus had banished him to the relative obscurity of Duncaer. But simply being one of Duke Gerhard’s enemies did not make him Devlin’s ally. He would have to make his own judgment and decide just how much he could tell Kollinar and what he could not.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the dark mood.
“You have told us little of Alvaren,” Stephen said. “What is the city like? Are there great buildings? What kind of people will we find there?”
Devlin accepted the change of subject gratefully, and began to describe Alvaren. It was more than three years since he had walked the streets of the place where he had been born, and there was a hunger inside him to see it once again, even if only for a few short days. He pushed aside his dark imaginings as he told of those places he had once known so well. There would be time enough to face his troubles on the morrow.
Fifteen
“WERE IT NOT FOR THE MESSENGER BIRD FROM Commander Willemson, you would have caught me wholly by surprise,” Lord Kollinar said. “You should have sent word ahead, and I could have prepared for your arrival.”
As they entered Alvaren they had been met by a squad of soldiers who had insisted on escorting Devlin and his companions to see the Royal Governor. Since such had fit in with his own wishes, Devlin had not disagreed.
In his memories the governor had been a larger-than-life figure, the embodiment of all the ills that afflicted Duncaer. But in person Lord Kollinar was simply a man in his middle years somewhat shorter than Devlin. He had a round face, and though he wore his graying hair in a warrior’s braid, his body had gone soft from years of easy living.
“What preparations were needed?” Devlin kept his tone mild, but he remained standing, so Lord Kollinar remained standing as well. It was a petty trick, but he did not want this man to feel comfortable in his presence.
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