Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  His gaze kept returning to the door, and he noticed that the wooden frame around the entryway was curiously marked. The wood appeared pockmarked in some places and nearly rotted through in others.

  Recognition dawned and he nodded. “Knives,” he said.

  Saskia followed his gaze. “The throwing knives. We used to hold contests here, till Ullmer got drunk and missed the target. His knife went into the hall, and clipped the ear of a messenger.”

  He winced, and his right hand went up to touch his ear, without conscious volition. “The messenger?”

  “The messenger kept his ear, but Mychal forbid us to play in here. Now we must hold our contests in the barracks, or in the taverns.”

  “We had trouble as well with our younger guards,” Didrik said. “Fortunately Devlin intervened before there were serious injuries.”

  “He was a rare one for the game. He could hit a target the size of a bird’s eye from twenty paces,” Saskia mused. “Not even Cerrie could match him.”

  “What was Cerrie like?” It was something he had long wondered about, for Devlin almost never mentioned his wife.

  “She was bold, brash. Hot-tempered, but a loyal friend. Proud, too. She could have had any man she wanted, and when Devlin began to court her, none thought it would last. He was a jeweler of all things. He seemed too soft, too gentle, to be a match for her. I wagered she’d be bored with him in a month. But he surprised us all, and within a year I was holding her sword at their wedding.”

  Soft? Gentle? It did not seem possible that she was describing the same man he had come to know. Not that Devlin was a cruel man, but there was a core of steel inside him that none who met him could mistake. Devlin could be ruthless when the occasion required. But he asked no sacrifices of others that he was not willing to make himself.

  “It must have come as a shock when you heard he was the Chosen One,” Didrik said.

  Saskia looked at her hands, seeming surprised to find that only crumbs remained from the sausage loaf.

  “He may carry a sword these days, but he is still no warrior,” Saskia said. “Not like us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You and I, we take our chances. We understand that life is short, and that death may find us at any time. Cerrie understood that as well. She knew the risks. She was in a wild place, where no one had lived for nearly two centuries. And yet she went outdoors, unarmed. She was careless, and it cost her her life.”

  For Devlin’s sake, he felt obliged to defend Cerrie. “Even if she had had a sword, or a bow, it might have made no difference. Others perished on that day, and surely some of them had weapons.”

  “But none of them had her training. If anyone could have slain the creatures, it was Cerrie,” Saskia insisted. “You never knew her, but she was a fierce fighter. Deadly skill wedded to a great heart.”

  “And what of Devlin? In the end, he was the one who killed the banecats.”

  “If he had been there on that day, he would have perished trying to protect his family. He only became dangerous when he had nothing to lose. He was a berserker. Not a warrior.”

  “Once that may have been true,” Didrik admitted. Even when Devlin had first been named as Chosen One, he had behaved more like a berserker than a calculating warrior. But since then Devlin had grown into his role and proven his fitness to lead. “I can only speak of the man I know. The Chosen One has proven himself as a warrior and as a leader. I will gladly follow him against our enemies, regardless of the odds.”

  “And do these enemies go by the name of the Children of Ynnis?”

  Would that matters were so simple. “We did not come here looking for a quarrel with the Children of Ynnis. They are the ones who provoked us—first by stealing the sword, then by trying to assassinate Devlin. Once we retrieve the sword we will leave. Devlin’s true duties lie back in Jorsk.”

  “How can one sword be so important?”

  Didrik shrugged. “That is not my story to tell.”

  “If Devlin needs a new sword, why doesn’t he simply forge a new one? He is a master at his craft. Look.”

  Saskia withdrew the dagger from her belt and handed it to him. He turned it over in his hands, noting that the dagger had a decorative swirling pattern etched down the center of the blade. Testing the edge with his thumb revealed that it was extremely sharp, and there were neither nicks nor flaws to be seen.

  “True steel,” Saskia said.

  Her words reminded him that imported steel was rare here, and nearly as precious as gold.

  “When Cerrie was named sergeant, Devlin made these for her band. Each one unique, the hilt fitted to the owner’s grip, our names etched on one side of the blade, and the name of our unit on the other.”

  He looked more closely at the blade and saw that the curving swirls did indeed resemble the few pieces of Caer script he had seen.

  “Fine work,” Didrik said, handing the dagger back to her. “But we need the sword that was lost. Not a copy.”

  There was no reason to tell her that Devlin would never again create such deadly beauty. Even if he had the inclination to resume his former craft, his crippled right hand meant that he was no longer able to do such intricate work.

  There was no telling what great works Devlin would have created, had he stayed in Alvaren and remained a metalsmith. Duncaer’s loss was Jorsk’s gain, for in losing a jeweler, they had gained a champion.

  A smith could make the swords, but it took a General to lead those swords into battle and ensure that they were used wisely.

  Twenty-five

  IT TOOK AN ENTIRE DAY FOR DEVLIN TO MAKE the necessary arrangements, but by the second morning after the ritual he was ready to meet with the woman who had attacked him.

  He paused at the gate that led to the peacekeepers’ compound and turned to Lord Kollinar. “Our escort will wait here,” he said.

  “I do not like this,” Kollinar muttered, but then he gave the necessary orders.

  Devlin waited until the soldiers had taken up their positions under the watchful eyes of the two peacekeepers who guarded the gates to their compound. As Kollinar returned to his side, he gestured for him to come closer.

  “A final word with you,” he said. Kollinar’s temper did not worry him, but he must have the governor’s obedience. Any sign of dissension would ruin the scheme.

  As the governor came to stand at his right side, Stephen and Didrik took a few steps back, out of courtesy. Though the minstrel, at least, was still within earshot.

  “I will have your pledge that no matter what I say or do, you will obey whatever orders I give. Without question or sign of hesitation. Do you understand?”

  “I am the King’s representative in this place. I will act according to my duties, as I see fit,” Kollinar replied.

  It was not enough. He needed the governor’s cooperation to make his plan work. Even Stephen and Didrik had seemed skeptical when he had outlined his intentions to them. But they at least trusted his judgment and his knowledge of his people. They would back him, despite their misgivings.

  The governor was a different matter. He still thought as a Jorskian, despite his long years in Duncaer. There was no time to make him understand. But Devlin would settle for blind obedience if that was what it took to succeed.

  “You will obey me, or I will strip you of your rank and send you home to Jorsk in disgrace.”

  “You cannot do that. King Olafur appointed me—”

  “And the Gods named me Chosen One and gave me the power to speak in the King’s name. Only he can countermand one of my orders. If you disobey me, I promise that you will regret it to the end of your days. Am I understood?”

  Kollinar seemed to shrink before his eyes. “I will obey. But I pray to all the Gods that you know what you are doing.”

  Devlin began walking toward the gate, and after a moment Kollinar fell in step beside him, with Stephen and Didrik following behind.

  As he led them into the peacekeepers’ barracks, he
noticed Lord Kollinar glancing around with curiosity. He realized this might be the first time the governor had ever set foot in the building.

  Tobias, who stood second in rank to Commander Mychal, was waiting in the hall outside the peacekeepers’ assembly room. As Devlin approached, he drew himself to attention and stamped his right foot in salute. It was a sign of respect, and Devlin wondered if the salute was for him or in recognition of the governor’s presence.

  “General, those you requested are within,” Tobias said.

  “Good,” Devlin said. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  The dining tables had been pushed back to one side and the assembly room arranged as a hall of justice, with a single long table in the center of the room. At one end of the table sat the prisoner Muireann, with two peacekeepers standing watch beside her. On the left-hand side sat the elderly lawgiver Peredur, the book of justice lying open on the table before him. Next to Peredur was his apprentice Jasper. Commander Mychal sat next to the assistant, and there was an open seat for Tobias.

  On the right side of the table were three empty seats for Devlin’s witnesses, and the empty space at the foot of the table was for Devlin himself.

  Devlin paused at the entryway to the room and waited till he was the center of all eyes. Then he removed his cloak, revealing that he wore not the uniform of the Chosen One but rather simple trousers and a tunic shirt, in the same style he had worn as a metalsmith. He waited as the others stripped off their own cloaks before waving them to their places.

  By custom Devlin did not sit, but rather stood in his place. After some prodding by her gaolers, Muireann rose to her feet as well.

  “Honored Magistrate, I thank you and your apprentice for coming here to witness justice being served,” he said.

  Peredur pursed his thin lips, giving his face a skeletal appearance.

  “My rulings have no standing in Jorskian courts,” he said. The reminder was for form’s sake, for all present understood that the laws of Jorsk took precedence.

  “That I well know,” Devlin said. “By the laws of Jorsk the Chosen One may pass justice both High and Low, and I will do so here today.”

  Peredur’s eyes widened in comprehension. After their conversation yesterday, he, at least, must have an inkling as to what Devlin had planned. Though the news that Devlin was a lawgiver in the eyes of the Jorskian courts was likely a surprise.

  “I am not afraid of you, nor of your justice, Cursed One,” Muireann said. Her week in captivity had done nothing to improve her manners or to blunt the edge of her defiance.

  “It is not the Chosen One’s justice you need fear,” Devlin said. “As Chosen One, I relinquish all claims for justice against this woman. I declare her innocent of treason.”

  Lord Kollinar hissed, and opened his mouth to speak. Didrik elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and with a furious glare, Lord Kollinar subsided.

  “This is a trick,” Muireann said.

  “No trick. I call on Governor Kollinar, as the King’s representative in Duncaer, to witness my judgment. I will scribe the orders myself.”

  “But she tried to kill you—” Commander Mychal broke in. “We have witnesses.”

  “Indeed. The Chosen One has declared her innocent of treason. But Devlin of Duncaer accuses her of attempted murder.”

  Peredur nodded, but his apprentice’s jaw dropped, the pen falling from his slack fingers and rolling across the table until caught by Stephen. With a sympathetic glance, Stephen rose to his feet and handed the pen back to the stunned Jasper.

  “You cannot do this,” Muireann said. “You are nothing. You are no one.”

  But there she was wrong, and it would prove her undoing. Indeed it had taken Devlin himself far too long to see the truth. For weeks now he had struggled with what it meant to have returned to Duncaer as the Chosen One and the General of the Royal Army. When in fact, the answer to his dilemma was far simpler.

  But merely because it was simple did not make it easy. Indeed, the scheme that Devlin proposed was a high-stakes gamble. If he lost, he would forfeit more than the sword.

  “Alanna, a weaver of Kilbaran, wife of Murchadh the smith, daughter of Mari, claims me as her brother. In the name of our kin, I call for justice.”

  Devlin of Duncaer could do what the Chosen One could not. He could invoke the full weight of Caer justice, bringing down on Muireann’s head the one thing she feared more than mere death.

  And to think that in his madness he had nearly thrown away the gift that Alanna had given him when she called him brother. He had gone so far as to begin writing the orders that would have ordered Murchadh seized for questioning. Were it not for the interruption by the wizard Ismenia, he might well have done the unthinkable.

  Muireann turned to face Peredur, tugging on the lawgiver’s robes. “This cannot be true. He is kinbereft.”

  Peredur pulled his sleeve free from her grasp. “Two years ago, Alanna claimed this man as kin, and so it is recorded in the book of her family. I have spoken with the sister of her brother’s wife, who lives here in Alvaren, and she has confirmed his claim.”

  Devlin had spent hours wrestling with this plan, wondering how Alanna would react when she learned how he had used the gift of kinship that she had bestowed upon him. Was it too much to hope that she would understand why he was doing this? Or would she be so horrified by his actions that she would renounce him, making him kinless once again?

  In the end he had realized that he must place his trust in his friends. The strength of a man was not solely within himself. It rested in those whom he claimed as kin and friends. He had placed his trust in Didrik and Stephen, and they had helped him break free of the mind-sorcerer’s spell. Now he would place his trust in the kinweb.

  “But—” she began.

  “Muireann of Tannersly, you attacked me without warning, without invoking the rituals of protection or notifying kin or judge,” Devlin said. “In doing this you have dishonored yourself, and I invoke the right of blood feud.”

  “He cannot do this,” Muireann protested.

  “It is his right,” Mychal said calmly. Then again, he had had a full day to accustom himself to the idea.

  Didrik and Stephen exchanged glances. Lord Kollinar’s earlier anger had given way to a thoughtful expression as he witnessed Caer justice in action.

  Peredur nudged his assistant, who dipped the pen in the inkwell and handed it to him.

  Devlin licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, and said the ritual words. “I, Devlin of Duncaer, brother of Alanna, call for justice. May each drop of blood you shed be repaid a hundredfold upon your kin. This I swear in the name of Haakon.”

  “You cannot do this,” Muireann said. Her eyes darted around the room, as if seeking escape, but there was none to be found. She had dug this trap with her own actions, and now she must live with the consequences.

  “Think of those who call you kin,” she pleaded. “Would you really do this to them? Is this Alanna ready to see her children slaughtered?”

  Devlin knew he would never forgive himself if any harm came to Alanna or Murchadh. And yet the declaration of blood feud could not be a bluff. Muireann must believe that he was fully prepared to invoke the feud and accept the consequences.

  “You know as well as I that children are exempt from blood feud,” Devlin countered. Though in truth this was scant comfort. Blood feuds were so rare because the outcomes could be horrific. A blood feud could rage for years, as one act of violence begat another. Declan was only eight now, but in six years he would be fourteen, and no longer a child in the eyes of the law.

  And should the feud continue even longer, then Devlin’s brother’s children could be sacrificed as well. For when he had instructed the peacekeepers to discover Muireann’s lineage, he had made a troubling discovery. Muireann’s mother was near cousin to Agneta’s mother, and thus she counted Cormack and Agneta’s children as kin. Farkin perhaps, but close enough that they would one day be targets in a feud
.

  He wondered what tales she might have heard from Agneta and whether those had played any part in her decision to attack him.

  But now was not the time for fruitless speculation, or dwelling on the past. It was the time to clear his mind of all distractions and focus his will on the matter at hand. He could not let Muireann see any chinks in his armor.

  “I, Devlin of Duncaer, brother of Alanna, call for justice. May each drop of blood you shed be repaid a hundredfold upon your kin. This I swear in the name of Haakon,” he said, repeating the ritual invocation.

  Once he said the words for the third time, there would be no going back. Blood would be shed, until one clan or the other was destroyed.

  “I beg you, do not do this,” Muireann said, wringing her hands. All traces of her earlier defiance had fled.

  “Restore to me the sword that is mine and I will forswear vengeance.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “Then think well on Ysobel’s fate. Is there one man or woman alive who bears a drop of her blood in their veins?”

  As he named the treacherous last Queen of Duncaer, the peacekeepers made the hand sign to avert ill luck. Ysobel’s lust for power had precipitated the events that led to the Jorskian invasion, and none would wish to suffer her fate.

  “I do not have the sword,” Muireann insisted.

  “Then you can take a message to those that do,” Devlin said. This had been his goal all along. “Arrange for them to meet me, under truce.”

  “I do not know who took the sword. When I attacked you, I acted alone. No one gave me orders.”

  For a moment he hesitated. What if she was telling the truth? The threat of blood feud was meant to make her reveal those who held the sword. But if Devlin invoked blood feud only to discover that she truly was ignorant, he would have condemned countless innocents to their deaths.