But in her heart, Captain Drakken knew that she would have done the same as Devlin. The inn-wife and her grown sons had deserved to die. Preserving their lives, even for a few days, seemed obscene in light of what they had done.
“The magistrate was distressed, but I’m sure he has had time to reflect on the wisdom of what you have done.”
“I would have stayed to help, but they would have none of it. As if being Chosen One made me too grand to dig in the dirt,” Devlin offered unexpectedly.
At every turn, Devlin deprecated his rank and accomplishments. It was as if he felt that he did not deserve such things. She added this tidbit to the storehouse of knowledge she had accumulated about the man.
This Chosen One was a puzzle indeed. The other Chosen she had known had reveled in their rank, even knowing that they were despised. The last Chosen, Gudbrand, had been a drunkard, and Asfid, who served before, had been a gambler. They had taken full advantage of their privileges, in their short careers. For like all of the Chosen in the last decade, neither had lasted longer than a season.
This man was different, and it had nothing to do with his humble origins. Rather she sensed a core of steel inside him, an inner strength to match the drive of the Geas and the power of the Chosen One’s office. Her instincts said she could trust him, and yet her long years of service in the Guard had taught her to be cautious. Court politics was a deadly game, even for one who had achieved the rank of Guard Captain. This Chosen One was an unknown quantity, who could be of help, or set all her schemes at naught.
“I am grateful that the killings will end,” she said. “But you did me no favors. If you had encountered a well-armed band of robbers, I might have been able to convince the King to allow the Guard to patrol the royal roads.”
“I would rather have faced a band of robbers any day than the horrors I found,” he said flatly. “I did not choose what happened. They did.”
His eyes flashed with anger, and she knew she had offended him. She sought to lighten the mood. “You did well,” she said. “Although I will think twice the next time I stay in an inn.”
Devlin smiled so briefly that it might have been only her imagination. “In Duncaer we have no such customs as inns. I now see the wisdom of our ways.”
This, too, she filed away, to think about later. She wished she had questioned him more closely when he first appeared in Kingsholm. But she hadn’t really expected him to survive the Choosing Ceremony. No one had. And then when he was picked, she’d expected that he would prove as useless as his predecessors. So what need had she to learn of him?
But Devlin was a survivor. He had the scars to prove it; she had seen them herself. He had survived the Choosing Ceremony. And then he had survived the inn-wife’s hospitality, as so many before him had not. She wanted to find out what else he had survived, but he had made it quite clear that he would not answer any questions about his past. And she could not risk alienating him by pressing him for answers.
Was Devlin typical of his people? She had scoured the King’s court to find what experts there were on the Caerfolk, but their store of knowledge had proven pitifully small, and often contradictory. Few people had made the long journey to Duncaer in the years since its conquest. Despite nearly fifty years of occupation by royal troops, and a government controlled by functionaries from Jorsk, Duncaer was no closer to being assimilated into the Kingdom than it had been at the start of the occupation. The people of Duncaer clung stubbornly to their own traditions, and as long as they paid their taxes, the King left them in peace.
Still, she did know a few things, such as that Devlin Stonehand was almost certainly not the name this man had been born with. The Caerfolk had names that changed to reflect their owner’s lives. By rights Devlin should have introduced himself by giving his birth name, trade, and the place where he resided. A formal introduction called for the names of his parents, and if married, equal honors to his wife and her family, and any children they might have.
And yet he had given but two names. One courtier had told her that this was simply a short name, used by those who had the most contact with Jorskians, and had adopted some of their customs.
This information was contradicted by a retired lieutenant, who had served in the occupying army. According to her, such a lack of names indicated a man who had been exiled for his crimes, or who had chosen to deliberately separate himself from society.
So which was he, this man who sat so calmly under her gaze, sipping at the tankard of citrine as if washing the road dust from his throat was his only concern? And how could she trust him, until she knew the truth? Or would she have to wait until he learned to trust her, and confided in her of his own accord?
Judging from the stubborn set of his jaw, that day might never come.
She sighed, and he apparently took that as a sign, for he rose to his feet. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said. “If you have no more questions, then I would seek my quarters. Even with the borrowed horse, it has been a long journey.”
Captain Drakken nodded. “Of course. Do not forget to give the Royal Steward a list of your expenses, and he will reimburse you. Court is in session, so barring a new crisis that requires your attention, you will be expected to attend the major functions.”
“Then I must hope I am soon called away,” he said, with no trace of sarcasm.
“Be careful. Court intrigue can be lethal, and now that you have returned, there will be those that seek to use you, for good or for ill,” she warned.
“They can but try,” he said.
Nine
IN THE WEEK SINCE HIS RETURN, DEVLIN HAD DONE his best to avoid the royal court and its denizens. The one exception had been the weekly court dinner, where his presence had been mandated by custom. That dinner had proven even more uncomfortable than the first. Now, rather than ignoring him, the younger members of the court sought him out, ostensibly to praise his success. But he knew they meant only to mock him, and were competing among themselves to see who could deliver the most elegantly veiled insult.
He knew that many would be pleased if he simply stayed in his chamber all day and night, as if he were a tool that could be placed on a shelf until it was needed again. But he was a man, not a tool—no matter what he had done, or what the Geas had done to him. He could not sit idly in that room, waiting and thinking. Not when every time he closed his eyes he saw the faces of his dead. And now they had a new face to join them, as young Jan joined his accusers.
He took to exploring the palace grounds. He found the practice yards and watched the guards as they trained, finding an echo of familiarity in their ordered exercises and calm discipline. Though the weapons differed, the discipline was the same, and he knew Cerrie would have found kindred spirits there. Watching as they practiced with their short swords brought to mind the fight in the inn.
An axe was no weapon for a fight in such a confined space. It had been luck that had won that battle, not skill. But perhaps there was a way to tip luck in his favor, next time. He had not time to learn the sword, but there were other weapons that could be used close in. Weapons that he had once known, and could learn again.
Devlin paid another visit to the forge of Master Timo, the Royal Armorer. His reception this time was chilly, as he had known it would be. Yet Master Timo’s skill was widely praised, and as the Royal Armorer he could be trusted to craft the weapons, and to keep silent about their existence. Until Devlin had a chance to regain his skill, it was best that no one know what he was planning. So he had invoked the power of his office to insist that the smith forge the knives to his specifications.
Two days later Devlin inspected the first of the knives that had been crafted, and pronounced himself satisfied. Master Timo promised the others would be ready within the day.
Returning to his chamber, he entered, then paused. Someone had been there, for a uniform had been carefully laid out upon the bed. A piece of parchment tied with a ribbon lay next to it.
The ribbon
was silk, tied in an intricate knot meant to display the sender’s skill at this royal art. One stroke with the new knife put an end to the foolishness, and Devlin unrolled the parchment and began to read.
“His Grace Duke Gerhard, King’s Champion, General of the Royal Army, Defender of the Throne, invites you to witness an exhibition of skill at arms, in a courtly duel against the challengers from Selvarat. At the third hour, in the arms salon.”
A courtly duel. No doubt it was nothing more than a few overdressed nobles, posturing with their swords. He released the end of the scroll, and it curled up in his hand. He began to crumple it, as he had discarded all previous invitations.
Yet something made him pause. He remembered Captain Drakken’s warning about court intrigue. This duel would give him a chance to observe the members of the court, when their attention was on something other than his presence. And should Duke Gerhard suffer an ignominious loss, Devlin wanted to be there to bear witness. There had been something about the Duke that he had disliked from their very first meeting. It would be a pleasure to see such a one get his comeuppance.
At the appointed hour Devlin made his way to the salon of arms. He had discovered the salon earlier in the week, during his restless wanderings. It had been empty then, and he had spent a few moments marveling that so much expensive glass should be put to such a purpose.
The arms room was designed as a rectangle within a rectangle. The center rectangle was fifty paces in length and twenty paces in width, and its wooden floor was lightly dusted with fine white sand. Stone pillars linked together by finely wrought iron chains separated this practice court from the observation gallery that formed the perimeter of the room. Light streamed in from windows set high up in one wall, adding to the brilliance of the torches mounted on the pillars. All four walls were paneled with glass mirrors to twice the height of a man.
But he had not reckoned on the full effect. Now, with the room filled with richly dressed courtiers, the mirrors multiplied their reflections over and over, till he was nearly dizzy. From a corner of his eye he spied movement and turned suddenly, only to realize that he had been startled by the reflections of those who stood across the room.
Devlin turned left, and began to circulate around the room, receiving a few curious glances as people recognized the uniform of the Chosen One. But as he had expected, the forthcoming spectacle outweighed the novelty of his presence. Helping himself to a goblet of straw-colored wine from the tray of a passing servant, he continued his circuit. Snatches of conversation came to his ears.
“And that is why Lady Helga has repudiated the marriage—”
“No, no, that was his father. The son has never—”
“A petty noble from Myrkan. No one of importance. I daresay the court would never have noticed if he was gone.”
At this Devlin pricked up his ears, realizing his recent errand was the topic of discussion. Turning his head, he identified the speaker as a plump elderly noblewoman, in conversation with a middle-aged man. The crowd swirled around him, and he discreetly edged nearer.
“And how humiliating to be rescued from an innkeeper. Not that I haven’t had an encounter or two with an amorous inn-wife myself. But never one where I required rescuing,” the nobleman said with a snicker.
“Baldur, you miss my point,” the noblewoman said, tapping her companion’s arm for emphasis. “It is we who are humiliated. The man is a foreigner. A commoner, fit only for public brawling. I would not have him as a servant, and yet now we must call him my lord, and give him the precedence accorded to the Chosen One. What was Captain Drakken thinking? He should never have been allowed to petition the Gods. In the old King’s day this would never have happened. Someone should remind our King that Captain Drakken takes too much on herself.”
“Lady Vendela, if you were still a King’s councilor, I am sure this outrage would never have happened. But perhaps there is a way to turn this to our advantage. Surely after this debacle, the King will see how foolish this has become, and agree there is no need for the post of Chosen One.”
Lady Vendela muttered something too low for Devlin to hear. Was she agreeing with this Baldur? He ventured a step closer, but the courtiers who had screened his view chose to move on, and suddenly he was in clear view of the pair.
Baldur caught sight of him first and whispered in the ear of Lady Vendela, who turned to look at Devlin. Devlin returned her glare steadily, and her face turned pale with anger or perhaps shame. After a long moment, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Silver bells rang, and at that signal, the courtiers began to gather around the perimeter of the practice area. Devlin positioned himself near the center of the bottom end, with his right side against a pillar. The space to his left was empty.
For the first time he noticed that three chairs had been set up at the top of the square. As the silver bells rang again, King Olafur appeared and took his place in the center seat. A young girl came and sat on his right, while a tall man dressed in a dark green brocaded robe took the seat to his left.
He recognized the foreigner as Count Magaharan, the Ambassador from Selvarat, who had been an honored guest at the last court dinner. The girl must be Princess Ragenilda, the King’s only child and heir. From this distance it was hard to read expressions, but he got the impression of a solemn child.
Duke Gerhard then stepped into the square. “On behalf of our noble King Olafur, I bid you welcome. And we thank Count Magaharan for allowing his personal guards to participate in this exhibition of martial skills.”
The Count rose and bowed to those assembled, who applauded softly in recognition of his contribution to the afternoon’s entertainment.
Duke Gerhard stepped out of the square, and was replaced by a woman wearing the blue uniform of the Royal Army. “The first match will be between Vidkun of Jorsk and Teodoro of Selvarat, using the light swords.”
The two combatants entered the square, bowed to the King and his guests, then turned to face each other. The dueling mistress stepped back a few paces, but remained in the square so she could observe the action.
The combatants drew their swords and saluted each other.
“Begin,” the dueling mistress ordered.
The swordsmen began to circle around each other, their long slender swords flashing as they probed for an opening. Each parry was countered by a block, so smoothly that they might have been performing an elaborate dance.
“Only second-rank swordsmen,” he heard someone complain. “It will be ages before the skilled fighters take the floor.”
Around him, the courtiers began to drift away from the practice square, far more intent on resuming their conversations or seeking out acquaintances than they were in watching the duel. But Devlin remained, fascinated by the spectacle. He had seen sword practice many times before, but never had he seen anyone use swords of this type. At least two handspans longer than the broadsword with which he was familiar, the swords were incredibly thin and flexible. Light enough that the swordsmen could perform complex patterns with dazzling speed, and yet resilient enough that when the swords crashed together, they did not break.
He ached to get his hands on one of them, to see how it was made. How did they sharpen the edge without weakening the mettle? Or was the edge only sharpened for part of its length? Perhaps it was merely the point that was lethal, for the fighters’ tactics seemed focused on pointfirst lunges rather than on the heavy killing stroke of a broadsword.
“Third point! Selvarat!” The dueling mistress called out, pointing to the foreign challenger.
The fighters broke apart. The foreign challenger raised his sword in victory while the Jorskman lowered his sword and bowed low in acknowledgment of his defeat.
A faint scattering of applause was heard as the fighters exited the square. The next pair, two women carrying short swords and round shields, took their places.
Devlin felt his attention begin to wane, as the short sword was nothing new to him. He watched for a few m
oments. The fighters were very good, but they lacked the indefinable spark of greatness. Cerrie could have defeated either of them without breaking a sweat.
It was interesting that the officials and duelists were from the Royal Army, which drew its officers from the ranks of the nobility, rather than from the City Guard, which was based on merit, and open to all. Did the King favor the Royal Army over the Guard? Perhaps that explained some of the remarks he had overheard earlier.
Or was it simply that Duke Gerhard was head of the Royal Army and had chosen his own to compete this day? How could Devlin tell what was significant and what was not in the morass of court politics and ancient loyalties? The members of the court had spent their lives learning the game of power, forming allegiances and learning whom they could trust and whom they should fear.
What Devlin needed was an impartial guide to the court, someone who could explain its factions. But whom could he trust? Captain Drakken had her own concerns and goals, which would color any advice she gave. And yet there were few others who would deign to exchange greetings with him, let alone trust him enough to exchange confidences about the other members of the court.
There was naught to do but see what he could learn on his own. Devlin turned away from the square and began to make his way through the crowd.
“Chosen One! Devlish Rockfist, or whatever your name is.”
He turned, and saw Master Dreng standing near the mirrored wall. The court magician had a glass of red wine in one hand, and with the other he gestured imperiously for Devlin to approach.
Devlin remained where he was, ignoring the gesture. He still remembered the day of the Choosing Ceremony, and the role the mage had played. In other circumstances, a mage of such skill would inspire respect and a healthy touch of fear, but Devlin felt only anger as he contemplated the man who had used his craft to place the loathsome Geas upon him.
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