Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  There was a third choice. She could try to remain in Duncaer, hoping not to be discovered. But such would be nearly impossible, for none would offer hospitality to one known as an oathbreaker. At best she could live the life of a wild animal, lurking in the forests, catching only the occasional glimpses of a society that she could never rejoin.

  In many ways, it would have been kinder if he had hanged her.

  Didrik eased himself down onto the floor, leaning against the wall of the arms’ salon. He told himself it was because there was no reason for him to remain standing, but he suspected that he should have paid more attention to the healer’s warnings. His legs were tired, and he wondered if he would be up to the long walk back to the governor’s residence.

  Just a little rest, he told himself, then he would be himself. For the alternative would be the humiliation of a litter, and that he would not endure.

  The day had begun before dawn as he dressed and joined the others as they made their way to the garrison to witness the execution of two of Devlin’s attackers. Justice had been served, but it was no pleasant thing to watch. Then, over Devlin’s protests, Didrik had insisted on accompanying him and Stephen to the peacekeepers’ compound to watch as Muireann’s sentence was passed.

  It still seemed to him that she had gotten off lightly. After all, she had stabbed Devlin, intending to kill him. And then she had broken her oath and joined with others when they attacked him. Mere exile hardly seemed sufficient punishment for such crimes. Yet watching the faces of the Caerfolk as her sentence was pronounced, he knew they would disagree.

  Stephen had been quiet all morning, and afterward had made his excuses, saying that he needed to return to the governor’s mansion to prepare for their journey.

  Devlin had elected to stay behind, for one last discussion with Chief Mychal, and Didrik, not trusting his legs to carry him back to the residence, had chosen to remain as well. He had listened as Devlin and Chief Mychal discussed the plans for rounding up those members of the Children of Ynnis who had so far escaped the citywide search and what was needed to ensure lasting peace in the city.

  It was dry talk, and neither man seemed to have the heart for much discussion. When Chief Mychal asked if Devlin had tried out his newly found sword, Devlin had eagerly accepted his suggestion that he do so, using the peacekeepers’ training room.

  Didrik followed, and watched as the two men stripped off their overtunics and began to limber up. At first Devlin practiced alone, running through the patterned sword drills. The first time through his strokes were tentative, but the second time through the patterns were swifter, and by his third pass he was executing the patterns with near-perfect form. His face was serene, and his breathing unlabored as he lost himself in the discipline of the ancient forms.

  Didrik envied his ability to wipe out the events of this morning with the discipline of practice. Were it not for his injury, he, too, would be trying to work off his anger with exercise. As it was, he could merely watch in envy.

  After a half hour of drills, Devlin and Chief Mychal began a friendly bout. They began by simply feeling each other out, in a time-honored rhythm of attack and parry, followed by a pause for the opponents to regroup. It was an interesting match. Mychal was a trifle shorter than Devlin, but he was heavily muscled and wielded the two-handed broadsword as if it were made of wood. His years of experience showed in his controlled movements. Devlin was taller, with a longer reach. The Sword of Light was longer and narrower than a broadsword, and Devlin held it easily in a one-handed grip, as if he had drilled all his life with this weapon.

  By now a small crowd had gathered. He heard someone come up beside him, and as he turned he recognized Saskia, his guide from the other day.

  “Your master is good,” she said, as Devlin’s sword slipped under Mychal’s guard and came to rest against his throat. “I never would have recognized him.”

  Didrik winced. Only the most skilled of swordsmen dared duel that closely with sharpened blades. And he knew Devlin was crippled, even if Devlin seemed to have forgotten that fact. But Chief Mychal merely grinned and stepped back, saluting his opponent.

  Devlin raised his own sword in salute, then they began to circle each other again. He tossed the sword from his left hand to his right, and back, dazzling the eye, before whirling around and countering Mychal’s high stroke with his own. Sparks flew as the two blades met.

  “I stand corrected. He is not merely good,” Saskia said, sinking down onto her heels next to him. “Mychal is among our best, and yet Devlin is easily keeping up with him. It is no wonder that he was able to out-duel your Duke Gerhard.”

  There was a flurry of movement, almost too fast for the eye to follow, and then the participants separated. There was a long vertical slash on the front of Devlin’s shirt but he appeared unharmed. The cut seemed to have inspired him, for the next time they met, he sent Chief Mychal’s blade flying.

  Didrik’s head swam with dizziness, and he wondered if he could blame it upon his injuries. But it was more than that. He had just seen a heavy broadsword sent flying as if it were a mere dueling rapier. It should have been impossible. But apparently it was not.

  “Gerhard should have killed Devlin,” Didrik said. “Devlin was skilled, but Gerhard was our very best. Undefeated. He could have killed Devlin easily in the first minutes of the duel, but instead he decided to make him suffer. To inflict the death of a thousand cuts rather than making a single killing blow.”

  “A nasty fellow,” Saskia said.

  Didrik nodded in agreement. He remembered that moment, and how only Captain Drakken’s grip on his shoulder had prevented him from violating law and custom and charging to Devlin’s defense.

  “Gerhard’s overconfidence proved his undoing, for when he finally went for the killing stroke, Devlin turned into it and was able to disarm the Duke. The rest you know.”

  His eyes returned to the dueling pair. Mychal was saluting Devlin, which meant that Devlin had won another round while Didrik’s attention was elsewhere.

  “Then Devlin has learned much since the duel,” Saskia said. “I would not want to stand against him were he to fight in earnest.”

  He watched as Devlin held the sword in his right hand, executing a riposte that would have been impossible for him only a few days before. No man with half a hand could wield a sword so well. And yet neither the sword nor Devlin himself seemed to remember that he was crippled.

  Indeed he had never seen a sword that accommodated itself so well to both one and two-handed grips. It was almost as if the hilt changed itself to be whatever Devlin needed. Though such a thing was surely impossible.

  He remembered all the times Stephen had insisted on reciting the heritage of the sword and telling the story of how it had been crafted by a son of the Forge God Egil. Like Devlin, he had scorned such tales, but now he realized that there might be more than a grain of truth in them.

  At least it looked like a normal sword. Unlike the first time Devlin had held it, the blade did not glow with white light, nor did the gem in the pommel shine with ruby fire. No doubt such effects were saved for when the Chosen One was fighting for his life, as opposed to mere sparring practice.

  Thinking about the sword only intensified the aching in his head, and he decided it was time to change the subject.

  “Tell me, do you think the threat is over? Will the Children of Ynnis crawl back into their holes? Or do we need fear others trying to take the place of this Memory and his band?” Didrik asked.

  Saskia shrugged. “From what we can tell, there were only a handful of dedicated fanatics who followed this Daffyd and knew what he intended. There were a few dozen others who sympathized with the cause of liberation, but had no notion that he intended armed rebellion.”

  “With so few followers how was he able to amass stockpiles of weapons? Even Commander Willemson in Kilbaran had heard of the Children of Ynnis and grown wary.”

  “With enough money, smugglers will bring in anything.
If you want to seek out the real troublemakers, you must find Daffyd’s foreign paymaster. Whoever gave him the gold is your true enemy.”

  But Daffyd had taken his secrets to his grave, as he had no doubt intended. None of the other members of his band had any inkling as to the identity of their foreign patron. Indeed, they had all appeared horrified to realize that Daffyd was using arcane magic rituals to communicate with someone from outside Duncaer.

  “Hopefully your people will be less willing to trust foreigners who come bearing gold,” Didrik said. “Daffyd was a fool, for if he had succeeded in rebelling, he would have led thousands to their deaths.”

  “Agreed.” Saskia ran one hand through her spiky hair. “But do not expect us to shed any tears on the day that this unseen enemy finally strikes at your heartland.”

  Her grin was as sharp as a knife, and he felt pleased that she trusted him enough to speak honestly.

  “The enemy of your enemy is not necessarily your friend,” Didrik warned her.

  “True. But that does not make him our enemy either,” Saskia said. “If they leave us in peace, we will do the same.”

  Twenty-eight

  AFTER THE PRACTICE BOUT WITH CHIEF MYCHAL, Devlin accepted his invitation to dine with the peacekeepers, and it was late that evening when he and Didrik finally returned to the governor’s residence. He spent a few moments speaking with Stephen, who was subdued by the day’s events and eager to begin the journey home.

  Lord Kollinar had already retired for the evening, and when Devlin tried to see him the next morning, he found that the governor had already left for the garrison. The governor seemed to be avoiding him, and Devlin knew that Kollinar was still angry that his orders regarding the rebels had been overruled. He would have to deal with Kollinar before he left the city.

  Putting aside the problem of the governor for the moment, Devlin next sought out Didrik. The lieutenant moved with a stiffness that indicated he had overexerted himself on the previous day, though he claimed to be well enough to see to his duties. But there was no sense in taking chances, so Devlin ordered him to rest and personally oversaw the final preparations for their journey. They had four new mountain ponies, courtesy of the army stables, along with dried meat and fruit for themselves and grain for the horses. Worn tack had been replaced and the ponies newly shod. Saddlebags lined with oilcloth would protect their gear from the winter rains, and new fur capes would keep them warm in the coldest snows.

  Satisfied that they were as prepared as they could be for the exigencies of the road, Devlin left orders that the ponies were to be saddled and brought to the residence at first light on the following morning. Then he left the stables and made his way to Lord Kollinar’s office.

  The past weeks had shown him that while Kollinar was an able administrator, he was unwilling to consider anything outside the narrow realm of his responsibilities. He lacked the imagination necessary to respond to the threats now facing Jorsk. Worse, his troops showed distressing signs of complacency and lacked the discipline that wartime demanded. As a leader of garrison troops, Kollinar was adequate, but in a crisis he would be woefully lacking.

  One had only to witness how he had mishandled the outbreak of grain madness. At the first outbreak he should have acted swiftly to identify the source of the contamination and eliminate the tainted grain. Instead the sickness had been allowed to spread until it threatened the very stability of the province.

  Not to mention all those who had needlessly died, simply because Kollinar had no wish to report his failings or to beg the King for the permission needed to open the emergency grain stores. Once Devlin realized that such stores were available, he had swiftly given the necessary orders. With luck the new grain would reach the stricken areas in time to stave off more deaths. But such a disaster must never be permitted to happen again.

  It was unfortunate that he could not simply replace Kollinar, but there was no one suitable to take over as Marshal in charge of the occupying troops. And only the King could name a new Royal Governor. For now, it would be up to Devlin to make clear what he expected from Kollinar and the troops under his command. And when Devlin returned to Kingsholm, he would use every scrap of influence he had to persuade King Olafur to appoint a new governor for Duncaer.

  As the governor’s aide ushered Devlin into his office, Lord Kollinar rose hastily to his feet. “My lord, I did not expect to see you until this evening. Is there something amiss?”

  “I have just finished the preparations for our journey and wished to speak with you before I left. In private,” Devlin added.

  Lord Kollinar nodded at his aide, who left, closing the door behind him. He waited until Devlin sat before resuming his own seat.

  “You mean to leave tomorrow then?” Lord Kollinar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And your man is well enough to travel? If not, he is welcome to stay as my guest and leave here when he is fit.”

  “Lieutenant Didrik is well enough,” Devlin said. It would take time for Didrik to regain his full strength, but he could ride, and he refused to be left behind.

  Kollinar picked up a scroll from his desk. “Chief Mychal reports that they have captured the last member of the outlaw band.”

  Devlin nodded. Mychal had sent a messenger to him as well.

  “So I had heard. I suggest that you leave the rebels to the lawgivers for judgment,” Devlin said.

  “I had planned to do so. Such has been the custom, and it will reassure the people that all will go on as before,” Kollinar replied. “I still don’t know what this Daffyd hoped to accomplish by killing you. He must have known such an act would turn his own people against him and his followers.”

  “War,” Devlin said flatly. Memory’s dying words had revealed as much.

  Kollinar looked at him blankly, and Devlin elaborated.

  “He knew the army would be forced to avenge my death. He hoped you would see this as an act of war and unleash the full force of the army against the Children of Ynnis. Faced with open warfare, he expected the masses would rally to his cause.”

  “Even though it was a war they could not win?”

  “Even then,” Devlin said.

  It was the scheme of a madman, made all the more frightening because it might well have worked. Each person that the army arrested or killed would leave behind a web of family and friends who were honor-bound to avenge them. It would take only a few dozen deaths to involve the whole of the city. And then, from there the entire country would be drawn in. And once such a bloody conflagration had begun, it would be nearly impossible to end it.

  “Let us hope we have struck a crippling blow by cutting off the head of the group, and that the rest of these rebels will melt back into the dark corners from whence they came,” Lord Kollinar said.

  “At the very least we have set back their plans and bought time,” Devlin said. “You should have a peaceful spring.”

  Would that he could say the same for the rest of the Kingdom of Jorsk. It had been weeks since he had had reliable news of the capital, and it would be many more weeks before he returned. The search for the sword had taken him far longer than expected. When he had conceived the trip, he had expected that by this time he would be halfway home. Instead he had yet to start on his return journey.

  But he was returning in triumph, and his hand dropped to his side to touch the scabbard that held the Sword of Light. Already it was so much a part of him that it seemed he had never wielded any other blade. Though skeptical by nature, he had begun to suspect that Stephen’s tales might well be true. Surely magic had gone into the crafting of the sword, for how else to explain how well it fit Devlin’s grip? When he held the sword it was as if his missing fingers had been regrown. Even one-handed, all of his old skills had come back to him, and he had easily defeated his sparring partners.

  Surely there could be no better proof that Devlin was indeed the Chosen One, Champion of the Kingdom, and blessed by the Gods. Even his bitterest enemies would be
forced to acknowledge his office, and to accept his leadership of the King’s Council. Now, finally, he would have the power he needed to defend the Kingdom.

  And it was not too late. With hard riding they might well make the opening of the spring court. Or, if not the opening ceremonies, they would certainly arrive before the council began its true deliberations.

  “Before I leave, I have new orders for you and your troops,” Devlin said. Given Kollinar’s shortcomings, he was leaving nothing to chance. He reached into the pouch at his side and pulled forth a scroll, tied with red ribbon and stamped with the seal of the Chosen One. Kollinar took the scroll in his hand but did not open it.

  “If Jorsk is invaded,” Devlin began, though privately he thought it was a matter of when, not if. “If invasion comes, and matters are grave, you are to turn over control of the granaries and the garrisons to the peacekeepers. Then you and your troops are to make all haste to Jorsk to join in defense of the homeland. You are not to wait for orders from the capital, but rather to make all haste once you hear of the invasion.”

  Lord Kollinar’s eyes narrowed. “My orders are to hold Duncaer at all costs. Would you have me betray them?”

  “If Jorsk falls, you cannot hope to hold Duncaer. Not without the food imports, which will by then be in enemy hands. You will be trapped in the mountains, and if my people do not kill you first, then starvation will.”

  Kollinar continued to stare at Devlin, as if he suspected some hidden meaning in Devlin’s words.

  “It will not come to that,” Kollinar said.

  “So I hope as well,” Devlin said. “But it has been many long years since you were in the capital, Lord Governor. Things have changed. Raiders from Nerikaat cross the border with impunity, and when the spring thaws come, we may well lose Ringstadt. Pirates have decimated the shipping that forms Myrka’s lifeblood, and only this past summer we fought off an invasion force that sought to land in Korinth. And those were but mere skirmishes. I fear our enemy has yet to show his true strength.”