“Lord Brynjolf, I give you greeting,” he said, managing a short bow.
Lord Brynjolf paused in stripping off his gloves and held up one hand. “Please no formalities. And it is I who should bow to you, my lord Chosen.”
Devlin remained standing. “I am deeply in debt to you for your hospitality,” he said.
“And I am in debt to you as well,” Lord Brynjolf said, advancing toward him. “Sit, sit,” he urged. “There is no reason we cannot talk like civilized men.”
Devlin sat. Lord Brynjolf turned the second chair so that it faced him, and sat down.
“I would have greeted you sooner. But you were in no state for visitors, and I had matters that could not wait.” He tipped his head, and regarded Devlin for a moment. “Mistress Margaretha performed wonders, as usual. I hardly recognize you as the man that Stephen brought in here.”
There was something familiar about the way he cocked his head. “Stephen is nearkin to you,” Devlin guessed aloud.
Lord Brynjolf blinked. “Stephen is my son. The youngest of my children, if not the wisest.”
Lord Brynjolf was stocky in build, while Stephen was slender and gangling. Still, there was a certain resemblance, and Devlin realized he should have guessed it sooner. How else had Stephen known that there would be a healer here, or that they would be welcomed? And no wonder that Lord Brynjolf’s guards had recognized him on the road.
“Then my debt to you is double,” Devlin said, “for I owe both you and your son for my life.”
Lord Brynjolf leaned forward. “No, it is I that owe you, for ridding my people of that cursed creature. Though I confess when my guards told me that my son and the Chosen One were on their way to Greenhalt, I had no hopes that you would succeed.”
“I was lucky.”
“That is not how Stephen tells it.”
Devlin shuddered. He could imagine full well how Stephen was telling the tale. No doubt he’d already composed a song, describing Devlin’s mythical virtues.
“I had no choice in what I did,” Devlin said. “It was the duty of the Chosen One. Honor compelled me to act as I did. And the blow that killed the monster was a lucky one.”
It was the Geas that had driven him to that last desperate attack. He would not allow others to credit him with courage or daring, when he knew he had been but a pawn of the spell, and of his own craving for oblivion.
“I would not have sent to King Olafur, had I known there was a new Chosen One. My letter to the King was but an attempt to force him to see the troubles of the borderlands. I asked him for troops, but I am not surprised that he sent none.” Lord Brynjolf leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands as if weary. “In the name of the Seven, what I need is more guards. I could have destroyed the monster myself, if I had the resources. As it is, half of my best armsmen are in Ringstad, helping Lord Eynar’s men fight off border raiders. Those armsmen I have left are riding the roads and watching the borders to keep my own province secure. And yet still the King does nothing.”
Devlin wondered why Lord Brynjolf was confiding in him. Was he one of those who sought to win the Chosen One to his side? Was he simply trying to see how much Devlin knew of court politics? Or was he simply speaking candidly, as if to a trusted friend?
He owed this lord much, so Devlin offered candor in return. “The King does nothing because he is afraid. Afraid he will make the wrong choice and so he makes none. His council is divided, and bickers endlessly without agreeing on any course of action. The courtiers are blind to the dangers, intriguing for power while the Kingdom crumbles around them.”
“You see clearly for a man who is new to the court,” Lord Brynjolf observed.
“The courtiers see no reason to hold their tongues around one they presume already dead. There is much to be learned by a man who can keep his eyes and ears open.”
“I begin to see why my son praises you so highly.”
Devlin squirmed, uncomfortable with any praise. “It is rather Stephen’s courage you should praise. Neither duty nor honor bound him to the fight, and yet he freely chose to stay and fight. He would have rowed the boat himself, had I but let him.”
Lord Brynjolf shook his head. “A bold gesture, if not a wise one.”
“Wisdom may be taught, but courage and a good heart may not. In time your son will gain the wisdom to match his other qualities,” Devlin said, feeling the urge to defend Stephen to this man.
“It is good to see that he has a loyal friend,” Lord Brynjolf said.
Devlin kept his face impassive. Friend? He had not thought of Stephen in that light. He had seen him first as a nuisance, then as a journeying companion. And now he was indebted to Stephen for his life. He was grateful, yes. But they were not friends. Devlin could not risk the burden of friendship.
“I did you no favors at the lake,” he said, changing the subject.
“How so?”
“The skrimsal killed over a dozen of their kin, and yet the fisherfolk took no action of their own. They were like sheep being preyed upon by wolves, waiting for the shepherd to come and save them. If my plan had worked, and the villagers had slain the creature with arrows, then they might have learned that they were not helpless, and could work together to save themselves. But instead I killed the beast, and they made of me a legend, someone who was more than a man. The next time they face danger, they will look for another such legend to save them.”
To his surprise Lord Brynjolf did not take offense. Instead he nodded gravely. “Before long, all of us along the borderlands will need to learn to defend ourselves. I only hope that we still have time to make ourselves ready.”
“You have but to call on my name, and what I can do, I will,” Devlin said. It was all he could promise, in payment of his debt. It was a paltry enough offer, for he knew full well that when the time came, the Geas might command him otherwise.
“I hope I never have to hold you to that promise,” Lord Brynjolf said. “But come now, enough grim thoughts. For now we can rejoice that you are well and healed, and that my son has returned safely from his adventure. That is enough for one day.”
Devlin felt a sudden sympathy for this beleaguered lord. He had known that the Kingdom was breaking down. He had listened as Captain Drakken described the current troubles, and had overheard courtiers discussing the latest bad news to affect their rivals. Even Stephen, in his own way—with his songs and tales—had made him aware that the Kingdom of Jorsk was beset by troubles on all sides.
And yet never had he thought what it would be like to live in the border regions that were so afflicted, or to be one of the lords who was watching his once ordered world dissolve into chaos. Small wonder, then, that in the face of overwhelming difficulties, the common folk craved a leader that they could put their faith in, someone larger than life who could banish the darkness and restore order to their world. The Chosen One represented justice and order, and a living link to past times of glory.
Lord Brynjolf had no such illusions to comfort him, for he was too intelligent to believe in a Gods-sent savior. He knew that he could rely only upon his own efforts to save himself and his people.
Devlin repeated his vow, silently. For as long as the Gods spared him, he would help this man, and the others like him. He would repay his debt to this lord, if it was the last thing he did with his life.
Fifteen
LATE IN THE EVENING, STEPHEN PACED BACK AND forth in his father’s inner chamber, waiting for him to return. For the past three days, he and Lord Brynjolf had exchanged only a few words, as Stephen had spent most of his time haunting Devlin’s sickroom or waiting in the antechamber outside for word on whether the Chosen would live or die. But now that Devlin was recovering, he knew his father would expect his errant son to make an appearance, and his explanations.
Six months earlier, he and his father had exchanged angry words when Stephen insisted on leaving to pursue his destiny as a minstrel. And now he was returned, no further toward achieving his
destiny than he had been on that spring day.
He still hadn’t decided what he would say to his father when Lord Brynjolf appeared.
“By all the Gods, I am tired. Pour me some wine, if you would be so kind.”
Stephen went over to the wooden cabinet and withdrew two glasses, which he filled with dark red wine from Myrka. His father sat down in a chair and pulled off his riding boots. When Stephen handed him his glass, he took a sip, then leaned back and sighed with pleasure.
Stephen took his own seat opposite his father, placing his glass on a low wooden table and wiping his suddenly damp palms against his trousers. Somehow his father always managed to make Stephen feel as if he were a young lad who had been caught in mischief.
But his father’s first words took him off guard. “I have just seen your friend. He is not what I expected.”
“He is…unique,” Stephen said, failing to come up with words that would describe the complexities and contradictions that formed Devlin’s character. “In some ways, I know him like one of my brothers, and in others I don’t know him at all. I am not certain we even know his true name.”
His father’s eyes narrowed.
“Tell me how one of the Caerfolk came to be Chosen.”
“Devlin appeared on midsummer’s day, as travel worn as if he had walked the length of the country. He came to the guards and asked to be sworn in as Chosen. I, uh, happened to be there,” he said. No need to explain to his father that he had been under arrest at the time. “The next day I witnessed the oath. Devlin halted the ceremony, saying that the blade he had been given was false, and to prove it, he shattered it with one blow from his fist.”
Stephen felt a chill run up his spine as he remembered that moment. He had seen it with his own eyes and yet still had trouble believing what had happened.
“How could he know such a thing?” his father demanded.
“He claims to have been a metalsmith. Regardless, Captain Drakken lent him her sword and he took the oath. I think even Devlin was surprised when the Gods accepted his service.” Stephen thought for a moment. “After the ceremony, every weapon that the Guard possessed was checked for flaws. The Royal Armorer was kept busy for weeks replacing the weapons that had been tampered with.”
“So already the Chosen One has done great service,” his father mused.
It had not seemed so at the time. At the time, Stephen had been disappointed that the Chosen One was far more interested in checking the armory than he was in performing glorious deeds. But now he could see how important it had been to ensure that the weapons the Guard relied upon were trustworthy. If it came to the test, there would be no time to fix past mistakes.
“The Chosen One speaks highly of your courage,” his father said.
He stared, certain his father must be joking. Devlin had never spoken highly of anything. And yet his father appeared serious.
Stephen cast his mind back to Long Lake. Already it was fading into memory, as if it had been months and not mere days ago. “I could never do what Devlin did,” he said. “I offered my help only because I knew no better. I thought it would be a glorious struggle, like the songs of the past. But it wasn’t. I was safely ashore, among the rocks, and yet I was so terrified I could barely aim the bow. Devlin was out in that tiny boat, alone against the skrimsal. Wounded by an arrow shot by his allies, and still he managed to defeat the creature.”
“That sounds like one of your songs,” his father said.
“No.” Stephen shook his head firmly. “I will make no song of this. After the battle I was so wrapped up in my song making that I paid no heed to Devlin’s growing illness. He needed a friend, not a minstrel, and there I failed him.” He reached for his wineglass, not wanting to meet his father’s eyes.
“So your travels have taught you something after all,” his father said. “In these days we have little need for the services of a minstrel, but a man of courage is always needed.”
They had had this argument many times before. But for the first time, a small part of Stephen agreed with his father, though he had not given up his dreams of minstrelsy. And he knew what his father would ask next.
“I will not stay here,” Stephen said.
“But you must. I need you. Esker needs you. You’ve seen that for yourself.”
“Esker has you, and Mother, and my brothers and sisters. That is enough.”
His father tossed back the last of his wine, then rose and fetched the bottle. He filled each of their glasses.
“Think on it. Solveig is out with the armsmen, patrolling the borders.” Solveig was Stephen’s eldest sister, and their father’s heir. It was a measure of his father’s deep concern that he had sent Solveig on this seemingly routine task. “Harald has gone to Ringstad, to do what he may there. Your mother and Madrene are in Selvarat, practicing the art of courtly diplomacy, for what help that may bring. Your place is here. I need you.”
Never before had his father said that Stephen was needed. Always before he had insisted that Stephen was too young or too foolish to venture out into the world beyond Esker. But never had he said that Stephen’s talents had value, or that he might serve the province. If his father had said these words six months before, Stephen would never have left.
Stephen looked as his father, seeing that for the first time in memory his father looked all of his sixty years. The responsibilities he bore weighed heavily upon him, and Stephen had no doubt that his father could use his help.
It would be easy to give in, and to do what his father wished. But a deeper instinct told him that it would not be right. There was one that needed him more.
“I cannot stay. There are others you can rely upon. You have but to summon Marten, and he will return from Tyoga and bring his family. But my place is with the Chosen One, for as long as he will let me. Someone needs to keep an eye on him, to make sure that he doesn’t destroy himself,” Stephen said, trying to add a note of lightness but knowing that he had failed.
He braced himself for one of his father’s fits of temper, but to his surprise his father appeared resigned, as if he had already known what Stephen would say.
“The two of you are an odd pair. Still you may be good for each other. As it is, you are not the foolish youth who ran away this spring.”
“I did not run away,” Stephen protested.
“As you say,” his father conceded. “I will ask one promise from you. When the Chosen One is no more, you must promise to return here, to serve our people.”
His father’s voice was grim, as if they were already under siege. Stephen’s gut tightened. Had matters gotten so much worse since he had left? Or had he simply been too oblivious to see the rising tensions? For a moment he felt tempted to change his mind, to tell his father that he would stay in Esker.
“I promise. But I pray that day is long hence.”
Devlin remained at Lord Brynjolf’s keep for another week, until Mistress Margaretha pronounced him fit to travel. He half expected that Stephen would choose to remain behind, but when he announced his intention to depart, Stephen began making arrangements as if his companionship was a matter of course.
A small part of Devlin was glad that Stephen would be along. Not just because Stephen knew the routes, but because Stephen’s presence kept him from the solitary brooding he was prone to. Not that he would call the minstrel a friend, for Devlin had forsworn friendship. It was rather that if he had to have a companion on the journey, Stephen was a fair one.
Stephen’s horse had lamed itself in the frantic journey to the keep, so his father provided a new mount. Devlin’s horse, being of better quality and army trained, had fared better, and after a week of rest was nearly as eager for exercise as his master.
Laden with good wishes and ample provisions, they left the keep on a crisp autumn morning. They traveled through the day, and in the early evening they made camp in a clearing not far from the road. They could have stayed at an inn; they had passed one not five miles back. But Devlin had h
ad his fill of strangers, and was just as glad that he need accept no hospitality save his own.
After dinner, Devlin built the fire back up, preparing it for the night. Stephen sat on a log across from him, idly fingering his lute. He looked up, and asked, “Devlin, who is Cerrie?”
Devlin froze, his hand in the act of placing a chunk of wood on the fire. Then he carried through with the motion before turning around.
“Where did you hear that?”
“When you were ill, you called it out. It sounded like a name, am I right?”
Devlin wondered what other things he had called out in his fevered delirium. He hoped desperately that none in Lord Brynjolf’s house spoke the language of the Caerfolk.
“Who is Cerrie?” Stephen asked again, raising his head to look at Devlin.
He hesitated, wondering whether he should refuse to answer. Still, the man had saved his life. He deserved some measure of courtesy.
“Cerrie was my wife,” Devlin said, returning to his bedroll, and sitting down upon it.
“Was?”
“She is dead. Killed.”
“Was that when you got your scars?”
“No.”
“But—”
“We will speak no more of this,” Devlin said. One could push the limits of courtesy too far. Stephen had a right to his answers, but had no right to explore Devlin’s pain.
Stephen played softly on his lute for a while longer. Devlin, recognizing the tune as “Harvest Fair” breathed a sigh of relief. At least Stephen was not working on a new epic.
Eventually Stephen put the lute back in its case and rolled himself in his blankets to sleep. But Devlin remained wakeful, troubled by the memories Stephen had stirred.
The night was clear, and through a patch in the trees he glimpsed the Huntress, riding high in the sky. So the seasons had indeed turned. He thought for a moment. They reckoned time differently in Jorsk. By their calendar, it was the middle of ninth month, in the fifteenth year of the reign of Olafur. Devlin was no scholar, but from the appearance of the Huntress, he knew it must be close to harvest moon, as the Caerfolk reckoned the seasons. The time of the banecats’ attack.
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