“What wager?”
“The wager on my early death,” Devlin growled. “You must have been disappointed when you realized your creature had not destroyed me after all. But you made a mistake. You should have known I would come looking for you.”
Master Dreng shook his head emphatically. “The lake monster? I had nothing to do with it. I’ve never even been to that uncivilized province.”
What trick was this? “You know full well I do not mean that pathetic beast. The creature you sent was a being crafted all of darkness, that could change its form from solid to mist and back at will. The being that came looking for my ring!”
Devlin closed the distance and pressed the knife blade against Master Dreng’s neck, holding the mage’s bloodshot gaze with his own. He was vaguely surprised that the mage made no move to defend himself.
“You are mad. Mad or drunk. Such a creature exists only in your imagination,” Master Dreng scoffed.
“Do you wish me to drag the minstrel Stephen in, to confirm what I say? No doubt he has set the encounter down already in wretched verse. But verse or plain talk, he will tell you he saw the same as I. A creature came out of the night, formed of the very fabric of darkness. And it knew exactly where to find the ring of the Chosen One.”
Devlin pressed the knife blade harder, until he drew the faintest trickle of blood. “I call upon all the Gods to witness that my words are true, by my oath as Chosen One.”
Master Dreng’s eyes widened, then his shoulders slumped as if in defeat. “I believe you,” he said. “But I did not send such a creature.”
“Why should I trust in your words? What oath does a mage hold dear?”
“You stupid farmer. I did not send the creature because I cannot. I have not such power. I am only a mage of the second rank.” His words held the ring of unwanted truth, and his mouth was twisted with anger and perhaps shame.
Devlin took a step back, withdrawing the knife. He had been so certain that Master Dreng was behind the attack, and yet the mage’s bitter outburst had convinced him that the man was innocent.
“How can that be? You are a Master Mage, the Royal Mage of the Kingdom. I felt your power in that damned Geas spell.”
Master Dreng lifted his left hand and pulled Devlin’s knife out of the support post, freeing his sleeve. He held the knife in his hand, weighing the balance, then threw it so it tumbled end over end and embedded itself in the wooden table.
“The Geas spell is not mine. It was crafted decades ago by Hildigunn and Lenart, two mages of the first rank. I but mouth the words they created, and even then I have barely the strength to perform the binding ritual.”
Devlin felt a faint hope die within him at these words. Deep inside, he had nourished the hope that someday the mage could be persuaded to lift the spell and free him. But if Master Dreng did not comprehend it then there was no hope that he could break it.
And now he had another problem. “So now I know my enemy is a mage of the first rank.”
“Or one who holds such a mage in their employ,” Master Dreng suggested.
Now his enemies were both faceless and multiplying. “Is there such a mage in the Kingdom?”
“No. There are no mages of the first rank in Jorsk. If there were, one of them would be the Royal Mage, not I.”
For once the mage’s mocking was directed at himself. His voice held the familiar sound of self-contempt. Devlin felt strangely guilty for forcing the mage to admit to his shortcoming.
“I apologize for disturbing you and your household. I will trouble you no more.”
“No! You cannot come here, tantalize me with bits of a tale, and then leave. Come down with me to my study. My servant Johan will fetch refreshment, and you must tell me everything about your encounter with this creature. What you saw, what you heard, and how you managed to survive. If you describe it, I may be able to tell you who sent it.”
As Master Dreng led the way, Devlin paused at the table and retrieved his knife, replacing it in the arm sheath. They climbed down the narrow ladder, then descended the stone stairs to the first floor. The elderly Johan appeared, bearing two wineglasses and a newly decanted bottle of a red wine from Myrka.
Devlin told of the encounter. When he described how his axe had passed through the creature, he could not repress a shudder, and took a quick gulp of his wine before continuing.
Master Dreng leaned forward in his chair, his eyes bright, his wineglass forgotten on the table beside him as he questioned Devlin over and over again about his experience, forcing him to recall every detail. The lack of sound. The appearance of the demon creature, how it rippled and flowed as it changed shape. How it had left no trail, and how—though they searched the woods—they never found the spot where the lightning had flashed and the demon had made its first appearance.
“An elemental,” Master Dreng said, stroking his chin. “A creature made of darkness, just as you described. Never have I heard of one of such a size, but it is possible. Clever of you to banish it by using light.”
“We did not banish it. Stephen doused it with alcohol and I set it on fire with a torch.”
“I am sure that is what it looked like, but it was not burning, not in the true sense. An elemental cannot burn. What you did was to surround it with fire, which is a form of the light element. It was the light of the flames that destroyed the creature, and not burning in the sense that you know it.”
Devlin shook his head. Such esoteric explanations were beyond his ken. “We killed it before it killed us,” he said.
“Yes, you did.” Picking up the bottle of wine, Master Dreng refilled Devlin’s glass, then went to fill his own and seemed surprised to find it untouched.
“But I do not understand how it was attuned to the ring of the Chosen. Has the ring been out of your possession? Did you encounter anyone who troubled you, who might have been a sorcerer or a mage?”
“I saw no one I deemed a sorcerer, but I am hardly a judge of such things.”
“No, but the ring you bear is,” Master Dreng countered. “If someone near you is ensorceled, it will warn you.”
“How?”
“The ring will heat up and you will feel profoundly uneasy. The nearer they are to you, the more clearly you will be able to sense them.”
“I sensed no such thing before the creature’s appearance,” Devlin said. “But afterward … afterward, I felt as if someone were on our trail. Watching. Following. I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. And as soon as I entered Kingsholm, the feeling disappeared.”
“Curious. I must give this matter some thought. Perhaps there is something in my scrolls about elemental creatures. I seem to recall that Dunniver described them in her treatise on the properties of light and sound….” His voice trailed off, as he contemplated the possibilities.
“Just tell me who sent the creature, and I will do the rest,” Devlin said.
Master Dreng suddenly turned sober. “Be very careful, Chosen One. The person who created this elemental and sent him after you is a sorcerer of great power. Greater than we have seen in generations. He will try again, and there is little I or anyone else can do to protect you.”
“I will do as I may. As I must,” Devlin said. In the end, he would do as the Geas commanded, for he had no other choice.
Two lines of fighters faced each other across the practice yard. Each fighter held a wooden long sword in one hand and a small round shield in the other.
“Again!” Sergeant Lukas commanded.
Each pair of fighters advanced toward each other and began to attack.
Captain Drakken watched with a critical eye, for while drilling with shields was a familiar exercise for the guards, the long sword was new. Part of her mind was absorbed in the drill, noting that Oluva showed definite signs of improvement while young Vidkun was as clumsy as ever. She watched as Sergeant Lukas moved between the fighting pairs, offering infrequent words of praise, but more often stopping the fighters to correct their technique.
When he reached the end of the line, he called, “Break,” and the fighters ceased their labors. Most were sweating and out of breath. They drew apart, one going so far as to let her sword drag, which immediately drew Sergeant Lukas’s wrath and the promise of a month of night watches.
“Change pairs,” Sergeant Lukas called, and the fighters on the western side each advanced one place to their left, the last one running around the line to find his place at the beginning. In such a way each guard had an opportunity to practice against opponents of differing skills, sizes, and strengths.
“Now this time, try to remember what I taught you. Keep your shields raised. Slash with the sword, but don’t swing wildly. And keep your footing. Understood?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” called two dozen weary voices.
She knew they were tired. Knew they did not understand her current passion for relentless training and drills. Not that they hadn’t trained before. On the contrary, she took pride in their training. While they might lack the fine sword technique practiced by the officers of the Royal Army, the guards excelled at their own weapons; the short sword, the cudgel, and the ceremonial spear. And they were more than capable of standing long watches without complaint, or of facing down a street riot.
But now Captain Drakken insisted that they train and drill as never before. Twenty-five years in the Guard had taught her to trust her instincts. Trouble was coming, and she was preparing to meet it as best she could. Though the King and his councilors seemed complacent, Captain Drakken knew it was only a matter of time before the troubles that afflicted the border provinces spilled over into the heartland, and then into the capital itself.
And when that time came, she and the Guard would be ready. What she really needed was a hundred new guards. Three hundred was her authorized complement, and it was scarcely enough to fulfill their duties, let alone prepare for an attack. She needed at least four hundred trained guards in uniform. Five hundred would be better. But time and time again, the King and the Royal Steward refused her the funds she needed. And thus she trained her current guards so that each could do the work of two.
But as hard as she drove them, she drove herself even harder. She had personally inspected every guard post and defensive fortification, and had met with the city leaders to draw up contingency plans. Each week she argued her case for new funds before the Royal Steward, and she lobbied the members of the court for support. And at dawn each morning she had her own weapons practice, ensuring that her skills were equal to the best of those she led.
At an age when many would think of retiring, she was preparing for war.
“The tall one at the end extends himself too far when he lunges. He is off-balance,” a dry voice commented from behind her.
“Oluva has seen that as well,” she replied. And indeed, a moment later, Oluva let her shield waver as if weary. When her opponent thrust his sword into the perceived opening, she danced to the side and struck him down with her shield, then placed the tip of her practice sword at his throat.
“Well done,” the Chosen One said.
Captain Drakken turned slightly to face him. “You have a good eye for one who is not a swordsman.”
“I have spent many an hour watching such as these practice. In time, one learns to distinguish those who are skilled fighters from those who are not.”
Another enigmatic answer. Had he studied the sword or not? Who was he? A farmer? A metalsmith? And why would either have spent hours watching weapons practice? It made no sense. And yet nothing about this Chosen made any sense to her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw that the fighters had once again ceased their practice and returned to their lines. She turned her attention back to the field. “Lukas! Another quarter hour, then turn them loose,” she called.
Sergeant Lukas nodded.
She turned her attention back to the Chosen One. “You wished to see me?”
“We must talk. In private.”
“Come to my office. None will dare disturb us there.”
She led the way across the courtyard, observing the Chosen One through casual glances. He had a few more streaks of white in his black hair, and there were lines of weariness on his face. Yet, all in all, he looked remarkably well for a man who had spent a week lingering at death’s threshold, according to the testimony of the soul stone.
“May I presume you were successful?”
“Successful?”
“The lake monster,” she prompted, with exaggerated patience.
“Oh, that,” the Chosen One said, shrugging his shoulders dismissively. “Yes, the beast was destroyed, and the fisherfolk have reclaimed their lake.”
A guard saluted them as they approached the Guard Hall. Captain Drakken returned the salute absently, then led the way up the stairs and into the building. Outside her office, her clerk looked up from the order he was copying.
“We are not to be disturbed,” Captain Drakken ordered.
“Not even for the King himself,” Devlin added.
The clerk looked at her for guidance. She wondered if Devlin was joking, then decided not to put him to the test. She nodded acquiescence. It was doubtful the King would come looking for her in any event.
Her office was sparsely furnished. A large desk held a bright lamp for reading reports late at night. One chair waited behind her desk, and two before it. A map of the Kingdom and another of the city—this one divided into patrol sections—covered one wall. The opposite wall held a small fireplace, and a weapons’ rack.
She gestured to the chairs, but Devlin shook his head. “This will not take long.”
She hesitated, then sat on the edge of her desk. “What did you have to say to me?”
The Chosen One ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck. “I seem to have acquired an enemy,” he said.
“An enemy?”
Devlin nodded slowly. “On the first night of our return from Esker, we were attacked by a…creature. A magical being. The creature was searching for the bearer of the Chosen One’s ring.”
His words confused her, and she wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse. “A creature of magic? Like the skrimsal?”
“No. The skrimsal was a living being, but this was a creature forged out of the very substance of magic. Master Dreng called it an elemental.”
An elemental? She had never heard of such. And yet it was no more improbable than the other strange things that had befallen Jorsk in these troubled times.
“And why are you telling me this? Since you are here, I assume you defeated this being as well?”
“I defeated the creature, but not the mage who sent it. It is probable that the mage will strike again. My presence in the palace may place others at risk, and thus I come to warn you. I did not want to speak of this publicly, lest there be panic.”
Such caution was wise. Fear of a magical attack could weaken even the stoutest of hearts. And her guards would be no match for mageborn evil.
“Surely Master Dreng offered you his protection,” she said.
“Master Dreng offered his regrets,” the Chosen One said with a wry smile. “It seems that only a mage of the first rank could create an elemental creature, and thus good Dreng finds himself outmatched.”
“So what will you do?”
“Nothing. I will wait. I will watch. Either the mage will strike again or he will not. It is up to the Fates.”
She wondered how he could be so calm in the face of the new threat. Few things frightened her. In her youth she had once faced down a mob of angry peasants with only her partner to guard her back. And yet even she felt queasy at the thought of the horrors that an unscrupulous mage could inflict. If the legends of the mage wars were true, death was the least of what Devlin had to fear.
Perhaps his calmness came from the sense that he had nothing to lose. She thought again of the tangled web of stories and rumors that had been the fruit of her inquiries in Duncaer.
; “There is news from Duncaer,” she said casually. “The Earl of Tiernach had to abandon his plan for the New Settlements after the farmers were attacked by strange forest creatures. I believe they called them banecats.”
Devlin’s face was carefully expressionless. “They did not send for the Chosen One.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“It is not their way.”
Interesting that he referred to the Caerfolk as they and not us. Was this a sign that he considered himself a Jorskian now? Or was there something else he was trying to hide?
She fixed her gaze on her boot, which she swung idly, observing Devlin from the corner of her eye.
“You are correct. They did not send for the Chosen. It seems one of their own, a farmer, pursued the creatures into the forest and eventually hunted them down. Still, for all his efforts, the settlements were abandoned.”
Her efforts proved for naught. The Chosen One showed no reaction to her words. And yet she was still convinced that he was the one in the tale. Only a giant leopard or other great cat could have inflicted those scars.
She lifted her head. “Perhaps there is something you can add to this tale?”
“How should I know aught of this farmer? I was a metalsmith, as you well know,” the Chosen One replied.
She ground her teeth in frustration. She could not accuse him of being a liar. And yet she had the sense that he was not telling her the full truth.
But which truth was he hiding? The traders and couriers had brought back conflicting versions of this tale. One version said that the farmer had died while attempting to avenge his family. Another said that all present had been killed by the banecats’strike, with none left to avenge them.
And an even more chilling version had come to light, one that said the farmer had killed his own family, then been exiled to the forest for his crimes. There he had encountered the banecats, who recognized in him a kindred spirit and joined with him as he returned to take his vengeance on those who had exiled him. This she did not want to believe.
But what was Devlin hiding? What past sins were buried under his half-truths and evasions? Could it be, as some in the court whispered, that he was a traitor, in the pay of their enemies? Yet if so, how had he managed to circumvent the protections of the Choosing Ceremony?
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