Devlin nodded. “We know the traitor Gerhard was not above using magic for his own ends. Someone in Kingsholm set a spell on the soul stone and used it to find me. The creature that attacked Stephen and myself was surely a great working of magic.”
“Gerhard’s allies also had gold, enough to pay for the mercenaries who sought to capture Korinth,” Didrik said. In his mind he could see a pattern forming, and it made him uneasy. “And here in Duncaer, we find that after years of obscurity, the Children of Ynnis now have gold coins to buy weapons, as well as impeccable information.”
This was mere speculation on his part. There was no proof of any grand conspiracy. No evidence to tie the rebel group to the enemies who sought to conquer Jorsk. Yet there were too many coincidences to dismiss the matter out of hand. For years their unseen enemy had preferred to attack by stealth, working to destabilize the Kingdom. An uprising in Duncaer would ultimately be doomed, but it would require large numbers of troops to put it down and serve as an effective diversion should there be an invasion elsewhere.
It was a cunning scheme, made all the more brilliant by its simplicity. Even if they managed to keep the peace in Duncaer, their enemy had risked nothing except his gold. They still had no idea who was behind these attacks. All they knew was that their enemy was clever, patient, and powerful enough to employ at least one mind-sorcerer. And yet this person could pass him on the street and he would be none the wiser.
Didrik forced his mind back to the matter at hand. “And this mage thinks she can undo the spell?”
“Ismenia thinks she can break the link. She has gone to make her preparations and will meet me at the second hour past sunset to make the attempt.”
Devlin winced, then shook his head from side to side.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen asked.
“My uninvited guest is telling me that Ismenia will betray me and that to serve my oath I must flee,” Devlin said. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow, and his dark eyes were anguished. “Tell me again that Mychal is an honorable man, and that he trusts this woman.”
“Mychal swears by his name that Ismenia is a trustworthy soul who will bring no harm to you,” Stephen said softly. “Put your trust in your friends.”
They left the governor’s residence after sunset, slipping out the servants’ door and taking no escort. Wearing the long cloaks Stephen had purchased in the marketplace, with the hoods pulled up to conceal their features, they could have been any three men taking advantage of a free evening.
The cloaks were long enough to conceal the swords that both Stephen and Didrik wore. Devlin wore no sword, nor did he have even one of his throwing knives. For the first time in years he was completely unarmed, and it was an uncomfortable feeling. The back of his neck prickled, and he could not stop searching the shadows, looking for hidden dangers.
This is a trap, the mind-voice told him. Ismenia is in leaque with the Children of Ynnis. She will betray you. You must flee.
“No,” Devlin muttered. He would not listen to his tormentor. It was the voice of a liar, trying desperately to confuse him. The sorcerer knew Ismenia could break the spell and was afraid of losing his power over Devlin.
And yet, the voice fed into his own doubts. Even if Ismenia was trustworthy, he knew nothing of her skill. Any spell she tried might do more harm than good. What if in trying to break the link she accidentally strengthened it? Or, worse, tampered with the Geas spell? Could he really take that risk? He had lived with the mind-voice for weeks now, and it had done him no harm. Surely it was wiser not to place his safety in the hands of a stranger.
His doubts fed the power of the Geas. It did not care whether Devlin were hale or ill, sane or driven mad by a mind-sorcerer’s tricks. The Geas understood nothing except duty. It would not let Devlin imperil himself needlessly.
He came back to himself with a start, to find that he had stopped walking and Stephen’s hand was on his arm, urging him forward.
“Come,” Stephen said.
It was frightening to realize how easily he had been distracted. Left to his own devices he would never be able to meet with Ismenia and undergo the ritual. Even a momentary lapse in concentration was enough for the mind-sorcerer to use his fears against him. It was for this reason that he went unarmed, for he did not trust himself. He must trust in his friends.
Devlin cleared his mind and focused his will on what he knew to be the truth. The mind-sorcerer was his enemy and sought to destroy him. Only a magic user could break the spell. Only then would he be free to serve as Chosen One.
He felt the awful pressure of the Geas begin to ease as he repeated the silent litany.
“Come,” Stephen repeated.
Devlin took one step forward, then another. He would do this. He must.
It took nearly an hour to make their way through the city streets, until they reached Draighean Naas, where Ismenia was to meet them. A haven of green in the center of the crowded stone city, the grove was the place where rituals were held, including those of remembrance.
As they passed through the double row of black-thorn trees that guarded the entrance, Devlin felt himself begin to sweat despite the chill of the night. All his fears of magic, and his distrust for putting his life in another’s hands, rose up within him and demanded that he run from this place. But his will was stronger than his fears, and he continued to move forward.
The guardian trees gave way to a open field, and the frost-kissed grass crackled under their feet as they walked toward the ring of yew trees that formed the heart of the grove. On Midwinter’s Eve the space would have been crowded, filled with those who had lost friends and kin in the past year. Their ritual fires would have dotted the field like stars in a night sky. But tonight it was pitch-black, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. The lanterns they carried provided only enough illumination to find their footing.
Devlin saw a speck of light that could be another lantern. As they approached the speck grew in size, until he could see that it was a ritual fire. Formed of seven oak branches, none longer than his forearm, it would burn hot and swiftly.
Ismenia stood beside the fire, dressed in an unbelted robe of unbleached wool. Her hair was unbound, reaching down nearly to her knees. In one hand she held a long copper staff with a serpent’s head on the top.
“Wise one,” Devlin said, bowing his head in greeting.
“You are late. The moon is nearly overhead,” Ismenia said.
He wondered how she could tell on this cloudy night, then decided he did not want to know.
“What must I do?”
“I have given this much thought, and I believe that the sorcerer was able to touch your mind because you had left it open during the ritual of Remembrance. If you had properly finished the ritual on that night, the link would have been broken. But you did not, and the link has grown stronger as time passes.”
“And?”
“To break the link, we will have to finish what you started. I will lend my power to you, and we will use the power of this place, which has been strengthened by all those who have come before us.”
“And this will free Devlin?” Stephen asked.
“If the Gods are willing, yes,” Ismenia said.
If not, he would be no worse off than he was now.
“Let us begin,” Devlin said.
With a low-voiced incantation, Ismenia thrust her staff into the center of the fire, and the copper began to glow from the heat. At her gesture, Devlin took a seat on the ground, in front of the fire.
“Stephen, you were present on that night?” Ismenia asked.
Stephen nodded.
“Then you must help as well. Sit at the right-hand side of your friend, while I take my place to the left. The soldier may watch, but he is not part of the circle and must not interfere.”
Didrik took a few steps to the side, positioning himself where he could watch both the ritual and the path by which they had come. He set the lantern on the ground beside him and placed one hand o
n his sword belt, though it was unlikely that they would encounter any peril that could be defeated by mere steel.
Ismenia handed Devlin a shallow copper bowl, with runes carved around the rim. On top of the bowl was balanced a small dagger, again made of copper.
He unfastened his cloak and withdrew his left arm, knowing instinctively that a true offering was needed. His left sleeve had already been slashed to accommodate the bandages, so it was a simple matter to push up the sleeve and bare the flesh of his upper arm.
Four straight scars already decorated his arm. Now he drew a fifth bloody line beneath them, holding the bowl to catch the blood as it dripped from his arm.
“Haakon, Lord of the Sunset Realm, I, Devlin, son of Kameron and Talaith, now called the Chosen One, greet thee,” he said. He waited for twenty-one heartbeats, then placed the bowl in front of Stephen, and handed him the dagger.
The flickering firelight made Stephen’s face seem even paler than usual, but his face was calm as he uncovered his own arm. Unlike Devlin’s, his skin was unmarked. His hand shook only slightly as he drew the knife blade across his flesh.
“Haakon, Lord of the Sunset Realm, I, Stephen, a minstrel, son of Lady Gemma and Brynjolf, Baron of Esker, greet you on this night,” Stephen said. The cut had been deep, and his wound bled freely as he caught the blood in the bowl.
At Ismenia’s nod, he placed the partially filled bowl in front of her and passed her the bloody dagger.
Devlin handed him a strip of linen, which he used to bind up his arm.
Ismenia repeated the ritual, mingling her blood with theirs. Then she thrust the bloody dagger in the heart of the fire so that it touched her staff.
She held out her arms, and the three joined hands so they formed a circle around the fire.
Devlin’s gaze was drawn to the copper staff, which glowed with a white light. Reason told him the fire was too small to have such an effect, meaning that some other force was at work. His gaze traveled to the top of the staff, and he saw the snake-head turning in slow circles, though the rest of the staff remained motionless.
He swallowed, his mouth gone suddenly dry.
“I call upon the Seven to bear witness. We three have gathered on sacred ground, under open sky, in the shelter of the trees of wisdom. We have made offerings of blood and fire to the sacred forces that govern all living creatures. Hear us now, as we ask that you punish the one who perverted our sacred rite to his own ends. Cast out the evil spirit that seeks to force Devlin to do his bidding. Unbind his soul so that he may seek his own destiny.”
There was a long moment of silence, and then Ismenia squeezed his hand before releasing it. From within her robe she withdrew a small flask and poured a clear liquid into the bowl. Then she raised the sacred bowl up to the heavens and began to name each of the Seven Gods, asking for their blessing.
Devlin’s nerves were stretched taut, and it was all he could do to remain still.
Finally there was only one God left to name.
“Haakon, in your name was the deceit committed, and it is your power that the deceiver mocked. Hear us now, and with the sword of justice, cut the ties that chain this man,” Ismenia said.
She raised the bowl to the heavens once more, and, with a twist of her wrists, poured the contents on the fire.
Bright sparks flew in all directions. He could hear someone exclaim as the flames suddenly rose up to the height of a man before subsiding just as swiftly. Before he could draw a breath, the flames sputtered and died, leaving only gray ashes where moments before there had been burning branches.
Devlin blinked, his eyes unaccustomed to the sudden darkness.
“Is it over?” Didrik asked, coming toward them.
Ismenia rose to her feet and reached in to withdraw her staff.
“Wait, you’ll burn yourself,” Stephen protested.
The wizard paid him no heed, and as her bare hand closed over her staff, it was clear she felt no pain.
Devlin placed his hand in the ashes of the fire, not surprised to find that they were cold.
Devlin rose to his feet, and Stephen did the same.
Holding her staff in her left hand, Ismenia placed her right hand over Devlin’s heart. She held it there for a long moment, then placed her hand on the crown of his head.
“The link is broken,” she said.
Devlin’s knees nearly buckled with relief.
“Are you certain?” Didrik asked.
“Yes.”
“And the Geas?” Devlin asked. Ismenia had asked the Gods to free him from the chains that bound him, and the Geas was surely one such chain.
There was sympathy in Ismenia’s eyes, and he knew his brief hope had been for naught.
“The compulsion spell is beyond my power,” she said. “Unlike the linkage, you consented to the Geas being placed upon you, and now it is bound up with your soul. Even the mage who placed the spell upon you might not be able to remove it.”
Devlin tried to conceal his disappointment. He already knew that removing the spell was beyond Master Dreng’s powers. Perhaps only those who had first crafted the spell knew if it could ever be undone, and they had been in their graves for many years now. Still, the removal of the link to the mind-sorcerer had been a great thing, and with that he must be content.
“I will be forever grateful for your aid,” Devlin said. “The debt can never be repaid, but if there is a service I can do for you, you have but to ask.”
Ismenia shook her head. “You owe me no debt. As a student of the unseen realm, it is my duty to help those who have been afflicted by those who follow the dark arts.”
As a wizard, Ismenia existed outside the normal Caer structure of kin and craft ties. Her allegiance to her art was paramount, which was one of the reasons why his people respected wizards, but feared them as well. Mychal called her friend, but if she had once been kin to him, it was a connection that neither could ever acknowledge. In a way, her calling cut her off from their people as surely as his own oath as Chosen One had isolated him.
“If you will not accept my debt pledge, then you must accept my friendship,” Devlin said. “Though I warn you there are few folk in Duncaer who would openly claim the friendship of the Chosen One.”
“One can never be too rich in friends,” Ismenia said.
“Did you learn anything of the mind-sorcerer in your ritual? A glimpse of where he is, or perhaps even his name?” Didrik asked.
“No. I could sense that he was far away, but that is all.”
“How far? As far as the lowlands? As far as Kingsholm? As Nerikaat?” Devlin asked.
“Far,” Ismenia repeated. “He was not from any land that once belonged to the Caerfolk. I sensed great distance, but I know not these other realms and so do not know where he may have been.”
So once again their enemy had eluded them.
“I can tell you he had great power, in order to forge a link over such distance and to maintain it. As a friend, I must warn you. If you ever come face-to-face with this sorcerer, you will be in grave danger,” Ismenia said.
“I will heed your words,” Devlin said. Though he did not know how he could hope to hide from a faceless, nameless enemy.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“Now I will do what I came for,” Devlin said. “Now I will retrieve the Sword of the Chosen One.”
Twenty-four
AFTER RETURNING FROM THE GROVE, DEVLIN ENJOYED his first restful sleep in weeks. He awoke with the dawn, and despite having slept for only a few hours, he felt energized, for he realized what he must do.
All along he’d had the means to find the Children of Ynnis. It was so obvious that he should have seen it before. But he had been distracted, his mind caught between the pull of the Geas and the whispering voice that he had believed to be the Lord of Death. Now that his mind was clear, he could see his mistake. He had forgotten who he was. He had let the title of Chosen One consume him, relying upon others to search for the sword.
>
It did not matter that others had made the same mistake. Even Didrik and Stephen, whose counsel he relied upon most, had seen nothing wrong with having the army conduct methodical searches of the homes of likely suspects, or of using the peacekeepers to seek out members of the Children of Ynnis. Were they still in Jorsk, such tactics would be logical.
Devlin should have known better. He was in Duncaer. More than that, he was of Duncaer, though for a time he had lost sight of that fact. It was time to cast off his blinders and to reason as one of the Caerfolk.
And to see if he had the strength to do what must be done. Regardless of the cost.
Rising and dressing hastily, he rang for a servant and asked him to bring fresh kava and to fetch Lord Kollinar. The servant protested that Lord Kollinar was still in his bed. But when Devlin offered to wake the governor personally, the servant hastily volunteered to do so.
He was drinking his second mug of kava and contemplating fetching Lord Kollinar himself when the governor finally made his appearance.
“What is so urgent that you must see me now?” Lord Kollinar asked. He had not dressed, but wore a belted robe of silk over woolen nightclothes, the elegance of his attire marred by worn leather slippers. His face was puffy from lack of sleep.
Devlin rose and crossed to the table on which a tray of food had been laid out. He filled an empty mug with kava and handed it to Lord Kollinar.
“I want the prisoner Muireann taken from your gaol and turned over to the peacekeepers,” Devlin said.
“Why?” Lord Kollinar took a sip of the kava and set the mug firmly aside.
“There is nothing more to be gained from having the army interrogate her. I need her to be in the care of the peacekeepers.”
Devlin resumed his seat on the sofa, cradling his mug in his hands. Kollinar continued to stand.
“It is too much of a security risk. For all we know there might well be rebel sympathizers among the peacekeepers. Someone might try to help her escape, or to kill her before she has a chance to talk. Chief Mychal has already questioned her twice, with no results. He is welcome to try as often as he wishes, as long as the prisoner remains under my control.”
Devlin's Honor Page 26