“I thank you again for your service, and I will ponder on what you have revealed,” Devlin said. The next time the Geas called him to service, he would be better prepared.
The day of the winter solstice approached. In Jorsk they called it the midwinter festival and spent weeks preparing for the celebrations.
Devlin had his own preparations to make. In the week before the solstice he ceased trying to evade his watchers, though he continued to complain about them. He declared his intention to tire them out instead, and led them on seemingly pointless treks until they had explored nearly every corner of the palace grounds and the old city. At last he found what he was looking for, although he continued his wanderings for another day to avoid arousing suspicion.
From the market he purchased a sheet of copper and a set of jeweler’s tools, which he used to hammer the copper sheet into a small bowl. He then wrapped it in a heavy woolen cloak and hid the bundle deep within the woodpile behind the kitchen.
Most of the guards were on duty for Midwinter’s Eve, but a quarter of their number had the evening free so that they could take the watch on the morrow. The lucky guards had planned a gathering in their hall, and they invited Devlin to join them should he tire of the more formal celebrations hosted by the King and courtiers.
Devlin was carefully noncommittal in his responses, giving no hint as to his real plans.
On that day, he practiced with the bow and sword as if it were simply another day. Then, as he had done for the past week, he went into the Guard Hall and took off his heavy outer clothes, hanging them up on a rack with the others. Devlin entered the large common room and spoke for a moment to Lieutenant Didrik, while Behra, his watcher, took a seat near the door. When Devlin headed to the necessary, Behra made no move to follow him. No doubt he expected that Devlin would emerge after he had washed up, as had been his pattern before.
But this day was different. His luck held, for the washroom was empty, and Devlin went straight to the window. He opened it, and after seeing there was no one around, simply climbed through and out into the courtyard. The cold spurred him on as he made his way to the kitchen courtyard and retrieved the bundle. Donning the cloak and pulling the hood over his head, he became anonymous, just another laborer hurrying to finish his tasks in time to enjoy the festival.
Devlin kept his head low, but the guards at the eastern gate scarcely glanced at him as he joined the jostling servants heading to join family and friends at their celebrations. He traveled with the crowd until he was certain he could no longer be seen by the guards at the gate. Then he turned, making his way to the old city. From time to time he glanced behind him, but he saw no sign that he was being followed.
He reached the temple garden just before sunset. Swiftly he climbed over the low stone wall and dropped lightly down on the other side. As he had seen earlier, the snow in the garden was unmarked. There was little reason to fear that he would be disturbed.
He made his way to the center of the garden, the snow crunching softly underfoot. There, in the center was an oak tree, sacred to Mother Teá. Kneeling before the oak tree, he scraped away the snow until he reached bare earth, and cleared a space, where he then sat.
This was not his country. It was not his earth. But he had earth, and an oak tree and the open sky above him. It would have to serve. And though the Jorskians knew it not, he was certain that the dead walked here on this night, as they did in Duncaer.
From within his coat he removed the copper bowl and set it in his lap. Loosening his cloak, he pulled his left arm out, and then ripped the shirtsleeve off it, leaving his arm bare.
With his right hand he took the dagger from his belt.
“Haakon, Lord of the Sunset Realm, I, Devlin, son of Kameron and Talaith, once called Devlin of the Gifted Hands, greet my dead. May the burdens they carry be lighter for my remembrance.”
Devlin raised the knife. “Cormack, I remember thee,” he said. Holding the knife firmly, he made a shallow cut along the inside of his upper arm, and let the blood drip into the copper bowl.
As the blood dripped, he remembered his elder brother and his generous spirit. Though five years separated the two, Cormack had never complained when his younger brother insisted on following him, trying to do everything that his elder could do. Cormack had led, and Devlin had followed him, but now Cormack was gone and Devlin could not follow.
“Bevan, son of Cormack and Agneta, I remember thee,” Devlin said, making a second cut parallel to the first. He thought of nine-year-old Bevan, the eldest of Cormack’s children, and the one who most closely shared his father’s spirit. Bevan had been so proud when he was old enough to help his father as he labored. And now Bevan, too, was gone.
“Lyssa, daughter of my heart, daughter of Cerrie my joy, I remember thee,” he said, as tears welled up. He blinked them back fiercely, and his hand trembled only slightly as he made the third cut. He could not give in to his grief. Not yet. But Lyssa had been just a baby. A gift from the Gods that he had not deserved and so they had taken her from him.
“Cerrie, daughter of Ishabel and Duncan, Cerrie the proud, Cerrie the bold, Cerrie of the fierce temper, I remember thee on this day, as I do every day,” he said. He drew the final cut, his knife biting deeply into his arm.
Returning the dagger to his belt, he rhythmically squeezed his upper arm, forcing all four cuts to bleed until the bowl was half-filled. Then he placed the bowl on the ground before him, and bent forward until his forehead was pressed to the ground. He held the position for a long moment, then he straightened up.
“Know that you are remembered and be at peace. Lord Haakon, I call upon you as witness. These four are innocent. I alone bear the guilt for their deaths. As kin, I claim the burden of their sins. What they left undone in their lives, I will make right with mine. Let it be so,” he prayed, as the last rays of the sun disappeared below the horizon.
Only then did he bandage his arm with the torn short-sleeve and shrug back on his cloak, pulling the hood over his head.
The ground was chill beneath him, and cold seeped up into his bones as he contemplated the blood offering before him. The tears he had not given in to before now fell freely, running down his face and freezing where they fell on his cloak. He grieved quietly, for there was no sound great enough to express his pain.
“And we will meet a-gain,” Stephen sang, drawing the last syllable out while his fingers strummed the final chords on his harp.
There was a round of enthusiastic applause from the several dozen guards who were lucky enough not to be on duty and their friends, who had gathered in the hall to celebrate the midwinter festival. Stephen smiled, well pleased that he had accepted the guards’ invitation to join them for the celebration. He’d had offers to play in more prestigious venues, but since his return to the city he’d grown quite fond of the guards and they of him. And their honest enthusiasm was a far cry from playing for jaded nobles.
Stephen looked to his left, and caught the eye of Jenna the drummer and Thornke the fiddler, who had joined him. They were both members of the Guard, but were fairly talented for occasional musicians.
“Shall we try ‘Winter’s Heart’?” he asked, naming a popular dance.
The other two nodded, and as he began strumming the opening bars of the melody they joined in. Scanning the crowded room, he saw a ripple moving among the dancers. A ripple that was heading in his direction. As the dancers parted, he realized they were making way for Captain Drakken. Unlike the revelers, she was in uniform, and Stephen had a suspicion he knew the reason she was heading in his direction.
As the Captain drew near, she caught his eye and gestured for him to join her. Turning to Thornke, he said, “Play on without me, I will be but a moment.”
Lifting his hands from the strings, he stood the harp upright, then rose. The music continued without him, as Thornke switched to a lively country dance. Few in the crowd seemed to notice when Stephen stepped offstage.
Captain Drakken drew him
to one side, where none could hear them over the sounds of the music. “Have you seen the Chosen One?” she asked.
“He is not here.”
“Has he been here tonight?”
“No,” Stephen said, wondering just how much he should say. “But then I did not expect to see him.”
“Do you know where he has gone?”
“No, I do not,” Stephen said carefully.
Captain Drakken rubbed her chin, her eyes worried. “He gave his watcher the slip nearly six hours ago. The guards have searched the palace grounds, but there is no sign of him.”
“I would not worry.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “That is easy for you to say. You are not the one who has been the target of two assassination attempts in the last month. Two that I know of, that is. Damn his stubborn hide, why did he have to pick this night of all nights to disappear? Half the city is drunk, and the rest are doing their best to join them. The Guard is spread thin trying to keep order, and he picks this moment to slip his leash.” She shook her head slowly. “We have lost track of him before, but never for this long. I fear the worst may have happened.”
She seemed honestly distressed. Stephen hesitated. If Devlin had wanted her to know what he was about, he would have told her. Telling Captain Drakken what he knew seemed like a betrayal of his friendship. And yet if he did not tell her, she was likely to call out all the guards in search of the missing Chosen One, and should they discover Devlin, that would be an even worse betrayal.
“I did not expect to see Devlin because the Caerfolk do not celebrate the midwinter festival. For them this is the Day of Remembrance, and it is a solemn occasion,” Stephen explained.
“Remembrance of what?”
“Of their dead.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “He told you this?”
“No, he did not. But I know something of the customs of his people. This is a day for private mourning. Leave him be. He will return when he is finished. And if any man has earned the right to mourn in peace, it is the Chosen One.”
He turned to go, only to have Captain Drakken take hold of his sleeve. Slowly he turned to face her.
“What do you know that I do not?” she asked.
He returned her gaze steadily. “Nothing that is mine to tell you. I say again, leave him be.”
Captain Drakken held his gaze for a long time, then she nodded slowly. “I will wait until the first hour after sunrise,” she said.
Stephen returned to the hall and resumed his place on the stage, but his heart was not in his playing. He kept wondering if he had acted rightly. What if Captain Drakken was correct and Devlin was truly in danger? By persuading the Captain to wait, Stephen might have done his friend a grave disservice.
He told himself that he had to have confidence in his friend. Devlin could take care of himself. He had evaded his watchers purposefully because he wished to be alone, as was his right and the custom of his people.
Stephen had taken his training as a minstrel seriously, and his learning had included a smattering of the Caer tongue. Devlin had never asked, and Stephen had never found reason to tell him—especially after he had been witness to Devlin’s fever-born nightmares. Stephen had understood only a fraction of what Devlin had said, but it was more than enough.
Cerrie had been only one of the names that Devlin had mentioned. Who the others were that Devlin mourned Stephen did not know, but he had seen the depth of the pain that Devlin kept hidden from the world. He would have mourned with his friend if Devlin had let him, but Devlin had never offered. So instead Stephen did what service he could, and guarded Devlin’s secrets as if they were his own.
Devlin wept until he had no more tears, and still he could not touch the bottomless well of his grief. He meditated upon his sins and his losses until he felt light-headed from sorrow and the day’s fasting.
He listened intently, but he heard no sounds save the beating of his own heart and the wind sighing in the oak tree above. As the night wore on, he came to realize that his dead were not going to speak to him.
Perhaps Lord Haakon had already pardoned them, and they had no need to walk this earth. Perhaps they had chosen to walk the familiar hills of Duncaer rather than journey to this foreign land in response to his call.
Or perhaps they did not come because they had no wish to speak to him. Perhaps they feared he had forgotten them. Last winter solstice he had lain half-crazed with fever from the wounds he received in the struggle with the banecats. He’d collapsed in their den, expecting to die himself, only to discover a few days later that he was still alive. And that he had missed the Day of Remembrance.
It had taken him a year, but now he had atoned for his lapse. He had fulfilled his duties to Cormack’s family, ensuring they would want for nothing. And he had made his pledge to Lord Haakon, taking on the burdens of the souls that had perished before their time.
As the first rays of dawn illuminated the garden, Devlin finally felt at peace. He knew he had done all he could. All a mortal man could do, since he had not the power to restore the dead to life or to change the past. He had accepted the burden of his sins, and he would face the judgment of the Gods without fear.
He flexed fingers stiff with the cold until they could reach into his pocket and remove the flask and firestone within. He poured the alcohol on the bowl and set it alight with the firestone. The flames burned brightly, scouring the bowl.
When the flames were gone, he picked up the bowl and stored it within his cloak. Then he took a healthy swig of the kelje, feeling the alcohol warm his stomach and set his blood moving. With joints protesting his long stillness, he hoisted himself to his feet, leaning on the oak tree like an old man.
Then he began making his way back to the palace, and to those that awaited him therein.
Twenty
SLOWLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY, THE COLD OF WINTER began to give way to the warmth of spring. Like a great hibernating beast, the empire flexed its muscles and began to rouse itself to wakefulness.
First to appear were messengers from the provinces, bearing tales of winter hardships. Then came the nobles and their emissaries. And the court, which had languished in winter doldrums, stirred to life as new alliances were forged and old ones broken.
The palace, which had rung empty and hollow during the winter, was filled to bursting, as nobles who had not seen the capital in years felt compelled to make their presence felt. Even Devlin could see that there were far more courtiers present than there had been in the previous year, but it took Stephen to decode the message of their presence.
For the first time in many years, the nobles from the border provinces had come in force. Nearly every province was represented by its lord or lady.
Rikard, Thane of Myrka, came, and brought with him Lord Dalkassar, whose life Devlin had saved in the inn those many months ago. Devlin was invited to meet with Lord Rikard, and spent an uncomfortable half hour deflecting expressions of gratitude from Lord Dalkassar. As he left, Lord Rikard pledged his support to the Chosen One.
At the time Devlin did not recognize the significance of his words. Then came Lady Falda, who ruled the province of Denvir, which bordered Myrka on the west. Lady Falda insisted on meeting with Devlin in private, and though she did not make any pledges, the private meeting was enough to start court gossip swirling.
The next to arrive was Solveig, Stephen’s eldest sister and heir to Esker. Stephen professed himself glad to see his sister, though her presence meant that he could no longer masquerade as a mere minstrel. The revelation that Stephen was of noble blood, the son of the Baron of Esker, was greeted with great suspicion. Some courtiers looked at Devlin askance, as if Devlin’s well-known friendship with the minstrel was proof of a secret allegiance or hidden scheme.
Though all was calm on the surface, Devlin began to perceive a pattern in the elaborate rituals of the court. There was not one court, but three. At first glance, all were present to participate in a united court presided over by
King Olafur. But if you looked closely, the illusion was shattered. The courtiers had divided into three factions.
The first was the old court, presided over by Duke Gerhard and Lady Ingeleth. Here were found most of the oldest and richest noble houses, those who formed the interior of the Kingdom and had seen little trouble in these years.
The second court was smaller, for it was made up of the border nobles and their allies, the ones who had suffered the most or feared that they would be the next to suffer. They had come to seek changes in the King’s policies, but could not agree as to the best course of action to take. Instead they jostled amongst themselves for power and influence.
And there was yet a third group, those who believed that they could not wait for the King to show leadership, but instead must take action now, with or without the support of the King and council. This was the smallest group, for few had the courage to openly display such convictions. But to his astonishment, Devlin found they were looking to him for leadership.
He had not sought power. And yet by virtue of who he was, he had somehow acquired it. Devlin was the first Chosen One in over a dozen years to survive his first quest. He had proven himself as a warrior and a force to be reckoned with. If he continued to survive and to fulfill his duties, he would become an even more potent symbol. Or so his enemies must have reasoned, for why else would they send assassins against him?
Devlin refused to be the figurehead for the disaffected courtiers. Instead he offered himself as a councilor, one voice among equals, as he would have in Duncaer. To any who asked, he gave the same message. There would be no simple answers to the problems that beset the Kingdom. They had to rely upon each other for help, and they must be prepared to make great sacrifices. Matters would get worse before they got better, and in the end they might never be able to restore all that had been lost.
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