“You told me that the Children of Ynnis were your family,” Didrik said. “Surely one knows the names of those you call kin.”
Her own words had condemned her.
“The choice is yours,” Devlin said. “You will agree to arrange a meeting with the Children of Ynnis. Or I will invoke my rights, under our laws.”
“I will not betray my friends,” Muireann said.
“Then by your words and deeds you have betrayed your kin.” He nodded to Peredur, who took pen in hand, preparing to record the declaration of blood feud. His pulse pounded in his ears, so loud he could scarcely think. But he forced himself to begin the third ritual declaration that would seal all their fates. “I, Devlin—”
“Wait!” she shouted. Her shoulders sagged and she braced her arms on the table, leaning on them to keep her upright. “I will do as you say.”
He felt nearly dizzy with relief.
“You have until sunset tomorrow to arrange for me to meet with those who hold the sword that is rightfully mine. I will meet them before midnight, in a place of their choosing. They will prove their good faith by swearing an oath of hospitality and bringing the sword with them.”
“And then you and your soldiers will swoop down on them and seize the sword.”
The idea held merit, but the Children of Ynnis would never agree to meet with him if they suspected treachery. Instead he would have to hold to his oath and hope they held to theirs.
“I will pledge to abide by the laws of our people. No harm will come to those who meet with me if they act with honor.”
“And as for me?”
“If you do not return to me with news of this meeting by sunset tomorrow, I will finish the blood oath. If you betray me in any way, Peredur will see that news of your treachery reaches my kin, and they will finish what I have begun here on this day. But if you act in honor, once I have met with the Children of Ynnis, Devlin of Duncaer will set aside his grievance with you.”
“Do you understand what Devlin has proposed?” Peredur asked.
“Yes.”
“And do you agree to his terms?”
Muireann nodded.
“Then so shall it be written,” Peredur said.
“You are free to leave,” Devlin said.
She shook her head as if to clear it, then straightened herself to her full height and shot Devlin a look filled with venom. Stepping carefully around the peacekeepers who had been her captors, she made her way from the room without a backwards glance.
Suddenly weary, Devlin abruptly sat down. He could feel his legs trembling, not from fatigue but from sheer relief. He had never expected that he would have to issue the second invocation, but Muireann had proven herself made of stern stuff indeed.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the faint scratching of pen across parchment as Peredur recorded the agreement.
Lord Kollinar was the first to speak.
“Is that it? She just walks out of here, free?” Lord Kollinar turned to Commander Mychal, as if looking for confirmation. “Tell me that you have men following her, at least.”
“No followers,” Devlin said. “She has parole until sunset tomorrow.”
“But why? What makes you think she will return rather than simply fleeing the city?” Kollinar asked.
“Because if she does not return, Devlin will invoke blood feud. And that will mean death for her brother, sisters, parents, and cousins,” Chief Mychal explained.
And that was only the beginning. Blood feuds once started were nearly impossible to stop—for both sides must agree to call an end to the feud. Yet once the killing had started, each side would have their own tally of dead and grievously wounded, whose souls would demand revenge. If a feud was not stopped in the early days, the voices of the dead would outweigh any counsel of reason, and the feud would continue until one side or the other was destroyed.
“And anyone can invoke such a claim? Surely there must be laws against the killing of innocents,” Stephen said.
“Blood feud is rare,” explained Peredur. “I myself have witnessed only two in my lifetime. But it is within the provision of the law when one person attacks another without warning.”
And therein lay Muireann’s mistake. She had seen Devlin as belonging to Jorsk and had struck at him without ceremony. By Jorskian law, she had earned herself a traitor’s death, though surely she had seen herself as a martyr. If Devlin had truly been kinbereft, he would have had no recourse under the law of his people.
Muireann would never have been so careless as to attack one of their own without warning. Even if he was suspected of being a traitor, he still deserved the ritual warning. Or she would have taken the precaution of disowning her kin and protecting them from possible retribution. But in her arrogance she had done neither, thereby leaving herself open to the full weight of his vengeance.
Stephen turned his attention to Devlin. “I know you. It is not within you to harm the innocent along with the guilty. You knew that she would give in, rather than let you invoke the feud.”
Stephen’s words were comforting, but they were false. Even now, Devlin did not know if he would have had the strength to say the words that would have completed the third and final invocation of justice. Would he really have sacrificed his newfound kin in order to win back the sword of the Chosen One? If the feud had been declared, he could have sent a messenger to Commander Willemson, ordering him to take Murchadh’s family under protection. But it would have been impossible for him to protect every member of Alanna’s kin. Some would have been slain, just as he would have been forced to kill members of Muireann’s kin.
Already his hands were stained with innocent blood, from those he had failed to protect as Chosen One. How many more deaths would be charged to his soul?
But for now he had done all he could do. Muireann, at least, believed that he was ready to invoke the awful weight of the blood feud. What happened next was up to her. Either she would lead him to those who held the sword, or she would betray her promise and force him to finish what he had begun.
Twenty-six
THE LEGENDARY SWORD OF LIGHT WAS PROPPED up carelessly against the far wall, half-hidden by linen wrappings. From the moment he had stepped inside the room, Devlin had felt the sword as if it were a living presence. Even before the sword had been unwrapped, he had known that it was what he had sought. His right hand had ached to touch it, a ghostly pain that reminded him of the fingers he had lost.
But the Children of Ynnis had withdrawn the sword before he could lay hands on it, and now it was out of his reach as he attempted to reason with these rebels.
A tavern had been chosen as neutral ground, and the owner paid a silver latt to make herself scarce. Peredur had agreed to act as host, and it was to him that they made their pledges.
The Children of Ynnis had pledged to respect the safety of Devlin and his companions, and in return he had promised that there would be no attempt made to arrest the Children of Ynnis. He merely wished proof that they held the sword, and a chance to negotiate personally for its return.
A part of him hoped that those who held the sword were not the same folk who had killed Ensign Annasdatter. It was one thing to ransom a sword, but another thing entirely to let killers walk free. Especially since the killer bore the responsibility for four deaths—if one counted the three innocent Caerfolk who had been executed in retaliation for Annasdatter’s murder.
The sword was the only weapon visible, both parties having agreed to come unarmed. Devlin had left his sword with the tavern keeper, and his throwing knives had been left behind in his chambers. Didrik was unarmed, as Stephen appeared to be, though he had noticed that Stephen had found several excuses to touch his right boot and had begun to suspect that Stephen had hidden a dagger within.
As for the Children of Ynnis, three of them wore hooded cloaks and leather masks that covered the top halves of their faces, obscuring their features. Anything could be hidden within their voluminous cloaks. Muir
eann, alone, wore no mask, and her tunic and trousers had no obvious place for a concealed weapon.
The meeting had begun with the Children of Ynnis giving a rambling denouncement of the Jorskian occupation and condemning Devlin as a traitor for having sworn allegiance to the oppressors of his people. He had let them have their say, and then attempted to reason with them. But after nearly an hour, he had begun to despair.
“The sword belongs to our people. It is a trophy of war,” Fist declared. Despite the fierce name, he was a slightly built man with a deep bass voice that rightly belonged to someone with a much larger frame. His cheeks and chin were scraped red, as if he had recently shaved off a beard.
“The sword is mine, by right of inheritance,” Devlin countered. “By the law and custom of our people, it belongs to me, and those who took it are no more than thieves.”
“You are no longer one of our people,” Heart said. She had done most of the speaking so far. A young woman, perhaps Stephen’s age, she accompanied her tirades with extravagant hand gestures. He had noticed that both hands bore small white scars, and her left arm had a long dark red line from a recent burn. The marks of a metalsmith, which meant she was likely the one who had taken the sword. It also showed that she was unused to conspiracy, for a cunning person would have worn gloves to cover the identifying marks.
“Devlin has been claimed as kin,” Peredur commented.
The young woman tossed her head, a nervous gesture made ridiculous by the hood she wore. “He may have kin ties, but in his heart he is no longer one of us.”
This was getting him nowhere. He turned his attention to the third member of the Children of Ynnis, the one who had been named as Memory. So far he had spoken little, yet from their postures the others seemed to defer to him. At a guess he was older, nearer Devlin’s own age than the other two, who showed the hot-headed impetuousness of youth.
It was possible that Memory was indeed the leader of the Children of Ynnis, or if not their leader, then certainly someone in a position of power. Mychal had described the Children of Ynnis as being a collection of loosely connected bands rather than a cohesive organization. But their recent actions indicated new leadership had taken over. And while it was unlikely that they would allow their ultimate leaders to take the risk of meeting with Devlin, at least one of those present had to be in the position to negotiate on behalf of the Children of Ynnis. His guess was that Memory was that person, and it was he whom Devlin hoped to convince.
“I ask you, as a man of honor, to return to me what is mine,” Devlin said, focusing his attention on Memory. “I will pay two gold disks as ransom price, and grant amnesty for the attack upon me.”
“And we have told you, we have no use for your gold. Nor for your pardons,” Fist said.
“It is you who should beg pardon of us,” Heart proclaimed. “Your sins are many, but you may yet be redeemed. Renounce your traitorous allegiance and join with us in overthrowing our oppressors.”
He could not believe the foolishness of the woman, in urging him to betray his allegiance while in the presence of his friends. Either she thought them both ignorant of the Caer tongue, or she was arrogant beyond all measure.
“Join? With you?” It would have been humorous, did he not sense that she was deadly serious in her delusion. “You’d be dead in a week. A fortnight at the most,” he told her flatly.
“The Children of Ynnis are not without resources, and there are many who sympathize with our cause. If you joined us, others would surely follow,” Memory said.
“I will not lead my people to their deaths.”
“Have you so little faith in the people that bore you? We have steel weapons and the skill to use them,” Fist said.
“And we are not afraid to die,” Heart added.
Devlin flexed his right hand to relieve the ache. “Weapons you have, I will grant you that. But only someone who has never fought for her life could speak so casually of death.”
“With your help or without—” Fist began.
“With or without me you will die. And thousands of others will perish as well, paying the price for your foolishness.” Devlin leaned forward, fixing the full weight of his gaze on young Fist. “Tell me, when you were spending your foreign gold, how much food did you buy?”
Fist blinked. “Food?”
“Grain. Roots. Dried fish. How much food do you have?”
Fist shook his head in apparent confusion.
“Who holds the granaries?” Devlin asked.
“The soldiers of Jorsk,” Fist said slowly.
“And where does the grain come from that fills them? The wheat for bread? The barley for ale? It comes from the lowlands. From the lands farmed by those of Jorsk.”
“What of it? We are talking of our people’s freedom, not of crops,” Heart scoffed.
“In the old days, we grew enough to feed ourselves. But then the soldiers seized the lowlands and drove the people into the mountains. Many who live in Alvaren once lived elsewhere. Muireann’s kin once held a farm on the Kenwye River, isn’t that right?”
“Three sisters and their families lived there, growing oats, barley, and flax for linen. The land ran down to the riverbank, and was so fertile that it took all hands working for more than a week to bring the harvest in.” Muireann’s voice had a cadence that suggested this was a fragment of an oft-told tale.
“What we lost, we will one day regain,” Memory said.
“Not by taking up arms. At the first sign of rebellion, the soldiers have orders to set fire to the granaries. The garrisons will seal the passes that lead into the mountains. And then, without the imported grain on which we depend, they can simply starve us out.”
Stephen turned his gaze from the rebels to stare at Devlin in shock. Didrik, at least, would have understood, but Stephen seemed horrified at the brutal facts underlying Jorsk’s control of Duncaer.
“They would never—” Heart protested.
“They will,” Devlin said. “The city folk will be the first to suffer. The sick and the aged will die first. The children will get the best of the food for as long as it lasts. Those who flee the city will roam the hills, slaughtering the sheep meant for wool. The mountain dwellers grow enough to feed themselves, but have little to spare. Faced with the burden of their city kin, they, too, will begin to starve. In six months, those still alive will be begging the Jorskians to return.”
Devlin remembered all too well the last time hunger had swept through the city, in the terrible winter nearly twenty years before. Winter had come far earlier than expected, before the granaries had been filled. Food had been scarce, and fevers swept through the city, claiming numerous victims—among them his own parents. By the time spring came, those residents of Alvaren left alive were hollow-eyed shadows of themselves.
Now these fools wished to unleash a horror that would be a hundredfold worse.
“You are lying,” Heart declared.
“He speaks the truth,” Peredur said. “The governor’s standing orders are well-known.”
Devlin was surprised at Peredur’s interruption, for by tradition a lawgiver remained silent unless asked for his judgment. It was a sign that even Peredur had lost his patience with these fools.
“Playing at rebellion is a child’s game,” Devlin said. “You may throw away your own life if you choose, but you have no right to drag innocents to their deaths.”
Heart bit her lip and turned to look at the senior member of her party.
Devlin pressed home his point. “Those that gave you gold may call themselves friends of freedom, but they care nothing for our people. Their only interest is in causing strife, and in forcing King Olafur to send his troops south, leaving the northern borders undefended. In the end, the rebellion will be crushed, and the deaths will be for nothing.”
“There are other ways,” Memory said. “I am told you speak in the King’s name. You could change the garrison’s orders, giving control of the granaries to us. Or you could even orde
r the soldiers to leave Duncaer and return to Jorsk.”
“I cannot betray the oath that I have sworn. All I can give you is what I offered. Gold. Amnesty. And a promise that when I return to the King’s court I will use what influence I have to try and persuade King Olafur to end the occupation. But before I can do that, you must hand over to me the sword which was bequeathed to me by Master Roric.”
“No.” Memory’s voice was soft, but it was clearly an ultimatum.
Devlin bit back a curse. He had failed. There was to be no peaceful resolution. He had hoped to appeal to their sense of honor, to their desire to avoid bloodshed and the hardships that the search for the sword had already brought to the city. But there was no reasoning with fanatics. Neither Devlin’s lawful right to the sword nor the promise of gold had swayed them from their folly.
The sword drew his gaze and he felt again the burning need to touch it. To hold it in his hands. He could take it. The odds were nearly even, four against three, and Didrik was skilled in unarmed combat. Even if one of the rebels had a weapon concealed beneath their robes, it would take time for them to draw it. If he moved swiftly, Devlin could seize the sword before they could stop him.
Such an act would dishonor him, and the pledge he had given. It would be seen as confirmation of all that the Children of Ynnis said about him, that he had indeed forgotten the ways of his people and was unworthy of those who claimed him as kin.
Or he could keep his own hands clean and let another perform the deed. He glanced over at the door where Didrik stood watch, his gaze switching back and forth between Devlin and the rebels. Though Didrik did not speak the Caer tongue, from the tone of their voices he must have understood that the negotiations were not going well. Devlin had but to give the order, and Didrik would give his life to seize the object of their quest.
No matter that Devlin had taken the pledge on behalf of his friends. If he were not the one to seize the sword, he could let the Jorskians take the blame, saying that they had misunderstood the terms of the pledge. And since the sword was Devlin’s by right, once in his possession there was no law or custom of either people that would require him to give it up.
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