It was what the Chosen One would do. Take the sword, regardless of consequences. His friends would understand. They would blame the Geas for forcing him to act against his inclinations. It would be easy.
But it would be wrong. He was more than the Chosen One. More than a puppet of fate or of the hell-born spell. He had reclaimed his soul and his honor, and he would not relinquish them. Not even for the sake of the sword.
“I speak to you now as Devlin of Duncaer, and I ask you one last time to return to me what is mine. The next time we meet, you will meet me as the Chosen One of Jorsk, and I will treat you according to their laws.”
“So be it,” Fist said, as the others nodded approvingly.
Devlin rose to his feet. He had not won, but the meeting had not been entirely wasted. He now knew for certain that the Sword of the Chosen was still within the city. And Heart, at least, he would recognize again. He could find her through the metalsmiths guild, and once he knew her true name, he would let Jorskian justice take its course.
Devlin turned to Peredur and inclined his head. “Peredur of the lawgivers, I thank you for your hospitality,” he said.
“May you journey from here in peace,” Peredur said.
“And you as well.”
Memory pushed his seat back, and stood as the others followed his lead. Heart went to stand by the sword, resting one hand lightly on the double-barred hilt.
Memory walked around the table, until he stood next to the elderly lawgiver. “Peredur, I thank you for your hospitality,” he said.
He reached down and grasped Peredur’s arm, helping him rise to his feet. Peredur swayed on his feet, joints protesting his long inactivity, and Memory kept hold of his arm to steady him.
It was a respectful gesture, but something about Memory’s proprietary air made Devlin uneasy, and he took a few steps closer to Peredur.
“War is inevitable, you know. It only needs the right spark.” The conviction in Memory’s voice was chilling, as was the light of fanaticism in his eyes. So much for Devlin’s earlier belief that Memory was the most reasonable one of the three.
Abruptly Memory released Peredur, and as the lawgiver faltered, Devlin reached out to steady him. He glanced around, looking for Peredur’s staff.
“Devlin! Beware!”
At Didrik’s shout he turned, and caught a glimpse of steel as Memory lunged toward him, sword in hand.
Hastily he shoved Peredur to one side and dove to the left as the sword sliced the air where he had stood only a split second before. But the oaken table blocked his retreat, and he found himself trapped. Memory recovered quickly from his lunge, and turned so his sword was pointed straight at Devlin’s chest.
The trap had been perfectly executed. By going to Peredur’s side, Devlin had placed the Children of Ynnis between himself and his friends. Didrik had exploded into motion as soon as he called his warning, but Fist had moved to intercept him, and he was forced to deal with him. Stephen, his hidden dagger now revealed, was similarly occupied with Muireann. He had no doubt that his friends would triumph, but that would take time. Time he did not have.
Memory came toward him, and as he advanced, Devlin began edging left, along the length of the table. His opponent held his sword as if he knew how to use it. No doubt he expected Devlin to try to flee. If Devlin were to charge instead, he might catch him off guard, and be able to disarm him.
It was a slender hope, but better than none at all. “Wait,” Heart declared, coming to stand at the foot of the table and cutting off his only escape route. In her hand she held the Sword of Light. “True justice calls that he die by his own sword.”
She took the sword in her right hand.
He heard a low cry, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor, but did not know if it were friend or foe who had fallen. All of his attention was focused on his own peril, and he cursed himself for being too honorable to bring a weapon to this gathering. Even a single throwing knife would have tipped the odds in his favor.
Heart’s face glowed with excitement as she raised the Sword of Light high over her head, preparing to strike a killing blow. But she was dangerously overbalanced, and he lowered one shoulder, preparing to charge her.
“Die, traitor,” she proclaimed.
Then, just as he launched himself at her, she screamed. Her arm jerked as the Sword of Light began to glow with a strange white light. She was still screaming as his shoulder impacted her midsection, knocking her against the wall and forcing the air from her lungs. The sword fell from her hand and Devlin let his momentum carry him to the floor, grabbing the sword and rolling under the table to avoid Memory’s furious attack. Once clear of the table, he regained his feet, and stood, the sword in hand.
The Sword of Light lived up to its name, for it continued to glow as if it were white-hot from the forge. And yet it was cool to his touch, the grip fitting within his hand as if it had been made for him and him alone. He traced a pattern in the air, feeling the sword respond to his command as if he had never been crippled.
Memory glared at him from the other side of the table as Didrik came to stand at his side, Peredur’s now bloody staff held in his hand. Both Fist and Muireann lay on the floor, either dead or knocked senseless. Heart had sunk to the floor, sobbing from the pain of her burned hands.
Stephen helped Peredur to his feet. The lawgiver seemed unharmed by his ordeal.
“The sword knows its master,” Peredur said, blinking against the radiance that lit the room as if it were the noon sun.
“You have proven yourself an oathbreaker and a traitor to the ways of our people,” Devlin said. “Surrender now, and I will leave you to their judgment.”
Memory smiled grimly. “You think you have won, but you have not.” He lowered the sword, as if preparing to relinquish it, then suddenly turned it until the point was resting against his stomach. “I die a hero’s death,” he said.
He thrust the sword deep within himself, grunting as the blade sliced into his stomach. He caught and held Devlin’s gaze as dark blood began to stain his robe. Then he folded in on himself and collapsed on the ground.
Didrik advanced cautiously, and as he reached Memory, he pulled out the man’s sword. Bright red blood gushed from the wound.
“He is still alive,” Didrik reported. “But not for long.”
Twenty-seven
THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF MEMORY DIED before a healer could be summoned, cursing Devlin with his last breath. His body was taken to the peacekeepers’ compound, and once stripped of his concealing mask it did not take long to identify him as Daffyd, son of Jemel, a lore teller who lodged above a tavern in the oldest section of the city. A search of his rooms revealed numerous weapons, precisely detailed maps of the city, and a small fortune in gold and silver coins. Even more ominously, a locked chest contained three glass globes of varying sizes, several small bags of herbs, and candlesticks with runes carved along their length. All objects needed to perform ritual magic, much to the disgust of the peacekeepers who discovered them.
As the news spread even those who sympathized with the Children of Ynnis were quick to distance themselves from Daffyd and his followers. Informants led the peacekeepers to the rest of Daffyd’s small band, who began rounding them up.
To his surviving attackers, Devlin offered a choice. They could face Caer justice, which demanded that anyone who offered violence while under an oath of hospitality be stripped of all kin ties and exiled. Or they could face Jorskian justice, which called for the death of any who attacked the Chosen One.
Fist and Heart chose Jorskian justice, and Devlin sentenced them to be hanged on the following day.
It was bitterly cold that morning, and Devlin shivered inside his fur-lined cloak as he stood in the square in front of the army garrison, waiting for the sentence to be carried out. He stood on the steps that led into the garrison, a few feet from the fortress wall, from which projected a half dozen gibbets. The two closest had new ropes attached to them and a smal
l wooden platform below.
On his right side stood Lord Kollinar. In the courtyard, on the left side of the gibbets, stood Chief Mychal and the lawgiver Peredur Trucha, who leaned heavily on the arm of his apprentice. They were there as witnesses only and had no official presence, for what was being done today was according to Jorskian law.
At the foot of the stairs stood Stephen and Didrik. Devlin looked down, ostensibly surveying the onlookers, and saw that Didrik was pale but composed. He had insisted on bearing witness, despite Devlin’s protests and against the advice of his healer. Fist had been aptly named, for he had broken three of Didrik’s ribs before Didrik had knocked him unconscious. A healer of the first rank had been summoned, and he had used his power to fuse the ribs back together. The ribs were sore, but now there was no risk that they would puncture a lung. Still, he had urged Didrik to rest in bed for a full day after the healing, advice Didrik had ignored.
Devlin had nearly ordered him to stay behind, but then relented. He, too, was prone to ignoring the advice of healers when it suited him, and he could hardly fault Didrik for doing the same.
The prisoners had already been brought to the raised platform under the wall, their hands bound behind them. Dozens of soldiers formed a human wall around the gibbet and the official dignitaries, in case of trouble. But there were no signs of disturbance, and only a handful of folk had come to witness the executions.
Devlin forced himself to watch impassively as the linen ropes were affixed around the necks of the two rebels. There was a moment of fumbling delay as Heart’s long hair became entangled in the noose, but eventually all was arranged to the executioner’s satisfaction.
He was close enough to see their faces. Fist had apparently availed himself of the numbing drug offered by the soldiers, for his eyes were glassy and his expression slack. It was not clear if he knew what was about to happen to him, and Devlin supposed that was mercy, of a sort.
It was more mercy than Fist had shown Ensign Annasdatter, for after his capture, Fist had boasted of being her killer. As Fist told the tale, he had interrogated the Ensign for hours, while she gave him information in exchange for the promise that she would be released. But as a man with no honor he’d never had any intention of sparing her, and when he was finished with his questioning he’d strangled her and left her mutilated corpse to be discovered by the watch.
Heart was defiant to the last and had apparently refused the drug. She kept her composure well enough, until the executioner tied back her hair, at which point tears began to roll down her face and her legs started to tremble. Only the soldiers on either side of her kept her upright.
She looked even younger than she was, an apprentice metalsmith who had yet to see her twentieth winter. And now she never would. It was hard not to look at her and think of her as a disobedient child. But in the eyes of the law she was an adult, and responsible for her actions.
The prisoners were forced to take two steps forward until they stood at the very edge of the wooden platform. The executioner looked over to where Devlin and Lord Kollinar stood.
“It is time,” Lord Kollinar said.
Devlin drew a deep breath. He forced himself to remember that Fist and Heart had freely chosen the manner of their lives and their deaths. He had met with them in all honor, but they had betrayed their oaths by attacking him. And if he had not stopped their rebellion, they and their leader might have unleashed untold horrors upon his people.
Better that these two should die than the thousands they might have led to their deaths.
“Crevan and Larena,” he said, giving their true names, “you have been found guilty of the crime of high treason and sentenced to death by hanging, in accordance with the power granted me by His Majesty King Olafur.”
His words were but a formality, for the official sentence had been issued and recorded yesterday.
“One day justice will find you fearnym and when it does my death will be repaid tenfold,” Heart declared. It was a brave speech, if one ignored how her voice shook.
Crevan, who now called himself Fist, said nothing.
Devlin waited several heartbeats, until even the murmurs of the onlookers fell silent. Then he nodded to the executioner.
“Let it be done,” he said.
As the soldiers relinquished their grasp on her arms, Heart summoned her composure and leapt from the platform. There was a dull crack, and her body jerked as the rope caught her weight. Fist, his wits dulled by drugs, was pushed from the platform by the executioner. His body, too, jerked, then twisted as it swung from the rope.
Devlin forced himself not to look away as the pair stopped twitching, their limp bodies swaying at the end of the long ropes. The executioner had been as skilled as Lord Kollinar claimed, for the specially knotted ropes had killed the prisoners instantly rather than leaving them to endure a slow, suffocating death.
Devlin waited, unblinking, until the executioner confirmed what he already knew.
“The prisoners are dead,” the executioner said.
There was a cry of anguish that rose suddenly, then was cut off. Devlin turned, and over the heads of the soldiers he could see an older man being comforted by his son.
Devlin turned back toward the gibbets.
“Justice has been done. Now their bodies will serve as a warning to all others who would contemplate such treason,” Lord Kollinar said.
Devlin shook his head. “Cut them down.”
“What?”
“Cut them down,” Devlin ordered. Bad enough that the image of their dangling bodies would now be added to the horrors that infested his dreams. He did not need to dream about their corpses slowly rotting and falling to bits.
“It is the custom—”
“It is the custom to do as the Chosen One orders,” Devlin barked. “Cut them down,” he said, his voice raised.
The executioner and his assistants moved swiftly to comply.
Devlin climbed down the stairs, and went over to Chief Mychal.
“See to it that their bodies are returned to their families,” he said. “Daffyd’s as well, if you can find anyone who will claim him.”
“They may not wish to come forward,” Chief Mychal said.
It was not as if there was still any doubt as to who the rebels had been. Within hours of their capture all three had been identified and the names of their families recorded. Devlin had promised that he would not seek retribution against their kin, but they might be reluctant to put his word to the test.
“Larena, at least, has a father, if my ears do not deceive me. The others have families as well. They may have failed to teach their children wisdom, but the least they can do is see that they have the proper death rites and pass peacefully into the next realm. See to it that the bodies are claimed or take care of it yourself.”
“As you wish,” Mychal replied.
After a last disapproving look, Lord Kollinar and his aides disappeared inside the garrison. Peredur was helped to climb into a litter, and he and his apprentice were dispatched to the peacekeepers’ compound, along with Chief Mychal. Devlin waited until the bodies of Fist and Heart had been taken down, and then he and his escort made their way across the city.
Once again he stood in the peacekeepers’ barracks room, but this time he was a mere witness, as others passed judgment and ensured the sentence was carried out.
To his surprise, Muireann had chosen exile over death. She stood in the center of the room, facing a long table at which seven lawgivers sat. As the most senior, Peredur read the writ of the judgment while the others prepared to record it in their scrolls. Copies would be sent to every corner of Duncaer, so that all would know to shun her.
“Muireann of Tannersly, you have heard the charges against you. Have you anything to say in your defense before I pass judgment?”
“I say again that I had no knowledge of what the others planned. I gave my oath in all honesty. I did not know that they were armed,” Muireann said.
It was mos
t likely true. Muireann, alone of the party, had been carrying no weapon. It seemed the others had not trusted her. Questioning the remaining members of Daffyd’s band had yielded the information that Muireann had been on the far edges of the group, a known sympathizer, but hardly a member of the inner circle.
Still that did not excuse what she had done.
“Your statement is noted,” Peredur said. “But regardless of what was in your heart when you swore the oath, you betrayed that oath when you chose to join the others in their treacherous attack. With my own eyes I witnessed your crime. Do you deny this?”
She shook her head, but did not speak.
“Muireann, we have found you guilty of breaking one of our oldest and most sacred traditions. You have shown yourself to be a person without honor and are no longer fit to live among our people. I declare you kinbereft and order that your name be stricken from the rolls of your clan. You will be given three pieces of silver and must make your way into exile. After three months from this day, if you are found anywhere within Duncaer, you will be summarily executed. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Her voice was steady as the last of the ties that bound her to Duncaer were stripped away.
“So let it be written,” Peredur said.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the faint scratching sounds of pen against parchment.
“Where will you go?” Devlin asked.
“Does it matter?” her voice was sharp.
“I suppose not.”
He watched as she picked up the bundle next to her feet, and two peacekeepers escorted her from the room. They would make sure that she left Alvaren without incident, and accompany her for the first seven days of her journey, to ensure that she did not try to turn back.
He wondered what would become of her. She could make her way to the southwest and risk the hardships of the Endless Mountains—the great peaks that made the mountains of Duncaer seem like mere hills. Or she could head north into the Kingdom of Jorsk and try to make her way among the people she despised.
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