Some found his message hard, and turned back to the familiar comforting platitudes offered by Duke Gerhard and the King. But there were a handful who were willing to listen, and with Devlin’s help they began making plans of their own.
This day they had gathered in Solveig’s chambers, which had become their makeshift council room. Solveig was very much like her father, Lord Brynjolf—plainspoken and practical, with none of her younger brother’s illusions and naïveté. She had witnessed firsthand the chaos that was overtaking the borderlands and knew how difficult it would be to restore order.
In addition to Solveig, her brother Stephen had come, to offer his knowledge of history and times when the Kingdom had faced similar challenges. Then there was Lieutenant Didrik. Though officially Captain Drakken remained neutral, Lieutenant Didrik’s watch schedule had been mysteriously rearranged so that he and his knowledge of military matters were at Devlin’s disposal.
They had been joined by the impetuous young Lord Rikard of Myrka, whose kinsmen Devlin had saved, and the cautious Lady Falda, whose province had long been allied to that of Myrka. And the most recent to join them was Erling of Vilfort. Erling spoke little, yet he had more reason than most to wish change, for it was his home that had been destroyed by raiders, whose deeds had as of yet gone unpunished.
“We need to prove that there is a better way. We need another success. Not one that is mine alone, but a victory of the common folk,” Devlin said.
“You did well against the skrimsal,” Solveig said. “If you do as well again with the next crisis, we may be able to win over other lords to our side. And with enough lords, we may be able to sway one or two council votes.”
It was a constant debate. There were forty great nobles and over one hundred lesser nobles in the King’s court. Only a dozen had seemed inclined to favor their views and, of these, none was a member of the King’s Council.
There was so much they wished to do. Release the Royal Army from its garrisons and send units to help patrol the roads and the borders. Open the King’s treasury to help those areas most afflicted. Begin arming and training the residents of the border provinces, so they could offer a first line of defense.
They were all agreed on what needed to be done. But they had no means to compel the King’s Council to agree with their plans. And yet that had not always been so. By law, the Chosen One was equal in rank to the King’s Champion and the First Councilor, whose authority was superseded only by the King. He was entitled to a seat on the King’s Council and a voice in their deliberations.
Time had eroded both the respect given to the Chosen One and the power he was able to wield. Not since the days of King Olaven had a Chosen One sat on the council. Devlin had the rights but not the power to back up his claims. And if he tried to assert his privileges he would bring himself into open conflict with the King and his councilors—a conflict that he could only lose.
The position of Chosen One existed because of tradition, and because the King willed that the tradition be carried on. If the Chosen One became difficult, the King and his councilors could enact laws stripping him of the ancient rights associated with the office. Which would leave Devlin still bound by his oath and the Geas, yet unable to count upon the resources he needed to fulfill his duties.
And yet if Devlin did not assert at least some of his power, he would be of no use to anyone.
“The council will give you no errand. They have no use for you,” Erling said, breaking his customary silence. Till now he had been merely an observer, saying little except to profess his contempt for Lady Ingeleth and the other conservative members of the council for their refusal to help his native city.
All eyes turned toward him, and Erling flushed under their scrutiny. “I mean no disrespect, my lord, but it is what I have heard. Your earlier success is taken as an affront, and they will give you no other task. You must wait until one of the provinces asks for your aid.”
Devlin nodded. Erling’s words made sense, and as someone who until recently had been part of the inner circle of the court, no doubt he had sources of information that the rest of them could not match. It was why they had welcomed Erling’s presence in their discussions, though until now he had offered little in the way of useful advice.
“What if the Chosen One is summoned to deal with a swamp witch or some such petty nuisance?” the elderly Lady Falda asked. “Such an errand would take time, and would serve our purposes not at all.”
Devlin had to agree with her. He felt uneasy staying in this place, awaiting whatever summons would next trigger the Geas, forcing him to act. It would be a shame to give his life for nothing when there was so much more that he could do.
“Why should I wait?” Devlin asked, as the thought came to him. “Where is it written that the Chosen One must sit tamely in Kingsholm until he is summoned?”
Stephen rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. “There is no law, but it has been the custom—”
“It has been the custom because the Chosen Ones before me had no wish to go out and seek their deaths,” Devlin interrupted. “But I have something different in mind.”
Lieutenant Didrik nodded. “I could talk to Captain Drakken. I am sure if we thought on it, we could find a reason for her to send you on an errand outside the city.”
“No,” Devlin said firmly. “Meaning no disrespect to the Captain, but I do not need her to invent an errand. That would defeat my purpose. I mean to show that I am willing to serve without the Geas to drive me.”
“But where will you go?” Solveig asked. “Perhaps Ringstad? With spring, the border raiders will return, and I know the lord of Ringstad would be grateful for your help.”
“Myrka’s sea trade is bedeviled by pirates,” Lord Rikard countered. “They are choking our very lifeblood.”
“Do not forget the troubles in Tamarack,” Lady Falda said. “The strange blights that have afflicted their crops are surely the work of some enemy rather than nature.”
His advisors began to argue among themselves as they offered suggestions as to where the Chosen One’s presence would do the most good. Devlin’s head ached as he considered the possibilities. Northwest to Ringstad and Esker? Southeast to Myrka? South to Denvir? West to Tamarack? Should he go where there was the greatest need or where his presence would offer the most political advantage?
There were troubles on every side of the Kingdom, and he began to feel a reluctant sympathy for King Olafur. He could not help them all, so how was he to decide, knowing his decisions might mean the difference between life and death for those affected?
He realized that the room had fallen silent and looked up to find himself the center of attention.
“It is up to you. We cannot agree,” Solveig declared.
Devlin sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “Let us see the map,” he suggested, since his grasp of the geography of Jorsk was still somewhat sketchy.
He rose, and they gathered around a table as Solveig unrolled a map of the Kingdom. Succinctly she described each of the troubled areas, and the reasons for and against his journeying there. Her tone was dispassionate, and she gave no more emphasis to the needs of her father’s ally Ringstad than she did to the troubles of Myrka far to the south.
When she had finished, Devlin tapped his finger on the one border province that had not been included in her recital. “What is happening in Korinth?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she replied.
“That is not quite true,” Lady Falda said. “The young Baron of Korinth complains often that his subjects are ungrateful and rebellious. But there have been no troubles reported there.”
“They have the Gods’ own luck,” Lord Rikard said bitterly.
Something in his words raised the hairs on the back of Devlin’s neck. He stared at the map, willing it to make sense. Why was this one border province spared when all the others were not?
“Korinth,” he said. “I will go to Korinth.”
“But why?” Lieutenant
Didrik asked. “They have not asked for aid.”
“Because I do not believe in luck. There is some other reason why this one province is spared the hardships that have beset the rest of the borderlands, and I will discover it.”
“It is a fool’s errand,” Lady Falda grumbled.
“It is my choice and it is done.” He could not explain to the others, but somehow he knew he had made the right decision.
“Is the King’s Council meeting today?” he asked.
“This afternoon,” Solveig replied.
“Then I will tell them of my decision,” Devlin said.
“You cannot simply walk in there unbidden,” Lady Falda said. “You must wait for the King to summon you.”
Devlin smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, but I can. After all, everyone knows I am an uncouth peasant with no manners and no sense of my station.”
“A disgrace to the Kingdom and to the ranks of the nobility everywhere,” Stephen added in a falsetto voice, giving a wickedly accurate imitation of Lady Vendela’s sneering tones.
Devlin thought for a moment. “Didrik, tell Captain Drakken that I will want to take a dozen of the Guard with me. We will call this a training mission, so have her pick a steady sergeant and those younger guards who need their skills sharpened. Tell her I will want to leave two days hence.”
Didrik saluted. “It will be as you say.”
“I will be ready as well,” Stephen said.
Devlin blinked. He had not expected the minstrel would want to accompany him into danger. For danger there would be, he could feel it in his bones. At the very least, the assassins that had stalked him in the capital might find themselves emboldened once Devlin left the safety of the palace walls.
Not to mention whatever awaited them in Korinth. Yet if Stephen wished to come, Devlin would not forbid it. Stephen had proven his courage, and his friendship.
“Your presence would be most welcome,” Devlin said.
Though normally he cared not what he wore, that afternoon Devlin donned the gray silk shirt, suede trousers, and gray overtunic that made up the formal uniform of the Chosen One. On his feet he wore not the slippers of the court but riding boots, each with a dagger showing openly in its side. As a final touch, he buckled around his waist the sword belt, with the long sword that Captain Drakken had given him on the day of his Choosing.
He had come to realize the power of symbols, for was not the Chosen One simply a living symbol of all the Jorskians hoped and feared? It was time he reminded the King and his council that they had to deal with the reality of his existence.
Lieutenant Didrik and Stephen were waiting outside his chambers when he emerged. Didrik looked thoughtful as he took in Devlin’s appearance, and his eyes lingered for a long moment on the sword belt.
“Is the council in session?” Devlin asked.
“They are just about to start.”
“Good. Let us see what we can add to their deliberations.”
As Devlin approached the council chamber doors, the two guardsmen slanted their spears across the door, signifying that the council was now in session.
“Stand aside,” Devlin ordered.
The guards looked at him, and then at Lieutenant Didrik for guidance.
“Our orders are to allow no one in,” the senior guard explained.
“Your orders do not apply to me,” Devlin said. “By right of my office I order you to stand aside, on peril of your lives.” His right hand fell as if casually to his sword belt, but he knew no one was deceived by his apparent nonchalance.
“But—” the guard protested.
“I would do as he says,” Lieutenant Didrik advised. When the guards hesitated, he added, “If there is any blame, it will fall on me.”
The two sentries exchanged glances, then lifted their spears to the upright position.
“Wait here,” Devlin said. He grasped the door handles and pushed the doors open.
As he entered, the councilors fell silent. Devlin’s eyes swept the room. Duke Gerhard appeared slyly pleased. Lady Ingeleth looked angry. And the King himself looked as he always did, fretful and uncertain.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Lady Ingeleth asked, rising to her feet. “I demand that you leave at once, or I will summon the guards.”
“There is no need to summon them, for they are right outside,” Devlin countered. “And surely the Chosen One has the right to speak to the King and his council? Did I not do you the service you requested last summer? At your command, I dispatched the beast that had troubled the folk of Esker. I did not expect gratitude, but I do expect the courtesy of a few moments of your time in return.”
Lady Ingeleth resumed her seat. “Very well, you may speak. But we have no intention of approving your foolish scheme.”
Devlin’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. There was something in Lady Ingeleth’s tone that made him think she knew more than she was telling.
“I see Erling has been busy,” Devlin ventured.
Lady Ingeleth turned white with anger and he knew his guess had been correct. So Erling had betrayed them. He wondered what they had offered him. Vengeance? Coin to pay for all he had lost at Vilfort? It did not matter.
“Why do you mention the name of this Erling?” Duke Gerhard asked.
“Because it is clear someone has tried to betray my confidence. If not Erling then another. No matter,” Devlin said, with an elaborate shrug. “I am accustomed to the treachery of Jorskians.”
An older councilor hissed at the insult.
“You see, Your Majesty, it is as I said,” Duke Gerhard commented. “One cannot reason with such a man.”
“I did not come here to reason or to beg. Or even to argue, though a blind man could see that your present course is one of folly,” Devlin said, circling around the council table and advancing toward the head where the King sat. “No, I came here to inform you that I will be leaving in two days’ time.”
“On what errand?” Lord Baldur asked.
“On none but my own,” Devlin replied. “I see no reason to wait in Kingsholm. If trouble comes, it will come to the borderlands first. And so I will journey hence, to do what good I may.”
King Olafur shook his head. “Such is against all custom. Far better that you wait here, until we know where you best may serve.”
“I disagree,” Devlin said. “I have idled away the winter, and now it is time to act. I have decided to take a squad of the Guard with me, to make of this a training exercise.”
“So the Chosen One fears to risk his own life?” a gray-haired councilor asked.
“I will do what I must, but there is nothing that says the Chosen One need make himself an easy target,” Devlin countered.
“I do not like this,” Duke Gerhard said slowly.
To all appearances the Duke’s words were simple caution, and support for his King’s views. And yet there was something about the Duke that rubbed Devlin’s nerves raw. He could not help but look for hidden meanings behind the man’s every utterance, wondering how many plots were concealed behind that bland expression.
This was the tricky part. If the King forbade his leaving, Devlin could not go. And yet it was not the King he needed to convince, but Lady Ingeleth and Lord Gerhard. In the end the King would do as they advised.
Devlin reached the head of the table, close enough so that he could reach out and touch the Duke if he chose. He caught the Duke’s gaze with his own.
“Duke Gerhard, often have I heard you say that the position of the Chosen One is an anachronism, and that there is no good that one such as I can do. So if my efforts are useless, what care you whether I remain in the city or roam the countryside?”
He turned then to the First Councilor. “And Lady Ingeleth, surely you have seen the factions of the court. There are many nobles who are looking for someone to lead them. Who knows what unlikely candidate they will find as the centerpiece of their schemes? Not that there is any risk that they would attach themselves to one such
as I, but surely my absence from the capital during these unsettled times would do more good than harm?”
Behind him he heard a snort of laughter. So at least one councilor appreciated the beauty of the trap that Devlin had laid, though he dare not turn around to identify his unknown ally.
“You are either very wise or a fool,” Lady Ingeleth said. “But I agree that there is no reason for you to remain here, where your presence may…confuse…those whose loyalties are unclear.”
Duke Gerhard nodded. “I, too, see no reason for you to remain. But I do not know if I approve of your taking a squad of the Guard. They are sentries and lawkeepers. I do not see how their skills can serve you.”
“Then give me a squad of your Royal Army as well, and we will see who can best serve,” Devlin said.
The Duke nodded. “I believe I can spare them. If you would permit, Your Majesty?”
King Olafur waved his hand. “Go. Go then, and trouble us no more,” he ordered.
Devlin bowed. “It is my pleasure to serve,” he said, hardly able to believe that he had actually done it. His gamble had paid off. He began to back away.
As he reached the door, Duke Gerhard asked, “Where are you bound?”
“Rosmaar to start,” Devlin said. “And then wherever my oath and the Kingdom’s needs take me.”
He reached the door, and made good his escape.
Twenty-one
IT WAS THE DAY AFTER THE COUNCIL MEETING, AND Devlin was methodically checking lists and ensuring all was in readiness to leave on the following day. It would not be a simple journey, as it had been when he and Stephen went to Esker. No, this time he would journey with over two dozen followers, and this multiplied the complexity of the journey a hundredfold.
Devlin felt dismayed at the size of the task before him. He was no war leader. How was he to decide if the guards were to be issued long swords or short swords and shields? Was it better to take fewer soldiers so they could move swiftly, or a larger force, which would reduce the risk that they would find themselves outnumbered by their foes? How was he to make these decisions? He had neither the training nor experience needed to fill this role, and yet guards who should have known what he lacked turned to him for guidance.
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