Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  Her companions were quiet, apart from murmured requests to pass the bread. Devlin’s silence came as no surprise. Never talkative to begin with, he had grown increasingly withdrawn since Didrik’s accident. Stephen’s restraint was a different matter, for on an ordinary day the minstrel was like to chatter about anything and nothing. But perhaps Devlin’s silence was infectious, or perhaps it was merely that Stephen’s thoughts, like Saskia’s, were with their friend.

  A true warrior, Didrik had not once complained about the pain of his broken ribs, or asked that his companions slow their pace to accommodate his weakness. He bore his injuries with a grim stoicism that impressed Saskia. But will alone could only do so much, and she feared that he had reached the end of his endurance.

  When the healer reentered the room, he was alone. It was not a good sign.

  “What say you?” Devlin asked.

  “He has the lung sickness,” Jonam replied.

  It was what she had expected, yet still she flinched at the news. In Duncaer the lung sickness was often fatal, although usually it claimed the very old or the very young.

  “Can you help him?” Devlin asked.

  Jonam shrugged. “Ten years ago I could have cured him in an afternoon. Now all I can offer are potions to ease him through the sickness, but even those he refuses to take.”

  “Can he travel? There are healers aplenty in Kingsholm,” Stephen asked.

  “Travel?” Saskia was incredulous. What could Stephen be thinking?

  “He needs rest, and a chance for the medicine to purge the poison from his lungs. You are lucky that he lived this long. If he continues to travel, he will be dead within days,” Jonam said bluntly.

  “Didrik is going nowhere,” Devlin declared. “Jonam, come with me and tell me what must be done for him. I will see that he takes the medicines you have prepared.”

  Saskia waited until they had left the room before she whirled to face Stephen.

  “Travel? You would have Didrik ride? You heard what the healer said.”

  Stephen held up both hands. “Peace,” he said. “I had to know what he would say. Didrik would have asked the same question in my place.”

  “His foolishness does not excuse your own. He is ill, and not in his right mind. You need to think clearly.”

  “I am thinking clearly,” Stephen said. “Devlin cannot stay here. Not for long. Didrik knows it, as do I.”

  “Why not?” She knew that Devlin had enemies who might be pursuing him, and a stationary quarry was easier to find than a moving one. But they had taken due precautions once they reached Jorsk, exchanging their uniforms for plainer garb and being careful not to identify themselves. No one would think it odd that they stayed at the inn while Didrik recuperated. And if they kept careful watch, they would be as safe here as on the road. Perhaps safer, for the place at least had defensible walls.

  “Devlin cannot stay here,” Stephen repeated. He looked around the common room, as if to ensure that they were alone. “His control is far greater than it was, but even his will is no match for the Geas. He may be able to delay a few hours, or even a day, but longer than that and he must leave.”

  Saskia felt her frustration rise. “What is this Geas you speak of? He is under orders to return, but is he not also your champion? What is so urgent that he must give over all common sense and risk the life of his friend?”

  Stephen sat heavily down on a bench, and after a moment she did the same.

  “As Chosen One, Devlin was bespelled—”

  “I know of that,” Saskia said hastily, making the hand gesture to avert ill luck. “Chief Mychal told me of his misfortune.”

  “Then you understand that he has no choice.”

  She understood nothing. She had traveled with Stephen for weeks, but suddenly it was as if a stranger looked at her over the table.

  “The wizard cured Devlin. Mychal told me of this.”

  “Ismenia was able to free Devlin from the mind-sorcery, but she could not break the Geas spell,” Stephen said, shocking her by naming a wizard aloud. “When he became Chosen One, Devlin swore an oath to serve faithfully until death. The Geas will hold him to that oath, regardless of personal cost. He is bound to return the sword to Kingsholm, and that is what he must do. Each delay will chip away at his will, until he can think of nothing but his duty. He will stay as long as he is able; but in the end he will leave, with or without us.”

  His blunt words sent a chill through her, and for a moment she wished that she had returned to Duncaer with the others. Even the smallest of children knew better than to mix their affairs with that of a wizard, and yet these Jorskians freely submitted themselves to such powers.

  “You trusted him so little that you bespelled him? What honor is there in that?”

  “All the Chosen Ones are bound by the Geas. It has been that way since the time of King Olaven.”

  “And Devlin agreed to it?” It had taken a leap of faith for her to imagine that Cerrie’s gentle husband had transformed himself into a warrior. But this sorcery went against everything their people believed. Devlin must have been tricked. Surely he could not willingly have accepted such chains upon his soul.

  “At the time I don’t think he expected to live long enough for it to matter. And now he cannot undo what has been done. Even the mage who cast the spell does not have the power to lift it. Devlin has found a way to control it, after a fashion, but his duty comes before all else. Those who would befriend him need to understand that.”

  Saskia shook her head in denial. She did not wish to be Devlin’s friend. Cerrie had been her friend. They had trained together, served together in the peacekeepers, and when Cerrie had married the gentle metalsmith, Saskia had borne witness. But now Cerrie was dead, and few traces remained of the man who had once been her husband. Still—for the sake of her old friend—Saskia had vowed to protect Devlin. She had sworn to see him safely delivered to Kingsholm, where his comrades could keep watch over him. She needed no spell to tell her her duty. But once she had completed her task, she would take her leave of these people and their strange ways.

  She turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. “But what does this spell have to do with the matter? Would he really leave us behind? He has been gone for months. How can a few more days matter?”

  Stephen shrugged. “I know only what he has said, that he needs to be in Kingsholm before the spring session of court begins. He will stay as long as he can, but then—”

  “We will ford that stream when we come to it,” she said firmly. Surely Stephen was exaggerating the influence of the Geas. Devlin had proven himself a wise man, far too cunning to charge off blindly, no matter what his friends thought.

  Devlin returned to the common room with the news that Didrik had finally taken the medicines prepared for him and fallen asleep. The healer Jonam left with the promise that he would return after sunset to check on his patient.

  There being no other travelers, the inn was quiet, though Saskia had learned enough of Jorskian ways to understand that the common room would be crowded after sunset, with local folks come to drink watered wines and ease the aches of a day spent clearing muddy fields for planting. Still, it was empty for now, and they used that to their advantage, emptying their packs and spreading their spare clothing to dry.

  Devlin checked each of his weapons, ensuring that their wrappings had held true and that they had taken no damage from the rain. He then did the same for Didrik’s gear. And though Saskia could see no flaw in the lieutenant’s blades, Devlin was not satisfied. He oiled and sharpened each of them in turn.

  Mistress Kasja came in, and her eyebrows rose at the sight of the weaponry spread across the tables of her common room. Then she took one look at the linens hanging by the fire and promptly gathered them up for the washing they so desperately needed.

  Saskia wondered what the inn-wife thought of her strange guests, and how long it would be before she guessed the truth. Caerfolk were rare in this land, and she and Dev
lin would be remarked upon wherever they went. To the inn-wife they had told the same tale they had used since crossing into Jorsk: Stephen was Lord Kollinar’s understeward and had been granted leave to return home after three years of service with Lord Kollinar in Duncaer. Didrik was likewise in the governor’s employ, bearing messages between the governor and his native estates in Jorsk. Devlin and Saskia were mercenaries, hired to escort Stephen and Didrik on their journey.

  It was a plausible tale, but it would not hold up in close quarters. Not for long. Neither Stephen nor Didrik was an actor, and any who watched them would note that they deferred to Devlin, even when they appeared to be ignoring him. And while there was sufficient unrest in Jorsk to warrant an armed escort, even an inexperienced eye could see the difference between an escort and a war party. Devlin did not travel as if he thought there might be trouble. He traveled as if he knew that there would be trouble and he had armed himself and his followers accordingly.

  The longer they stayed, the greater the chance that they would be discovered. All it would take was a few careless words. Devlin might be a common name in Duncaer, but in Jorsk there was only one Devlin of Duncaer—the Chosen One. Discovery would mean all their efforts had been for naught.

  If Devlin shared her concerns, he gave no sign of it. She observed him carefully but he did not appear unduly worried. Nor did he appear to be a man laboring under a sorcerous compulsion, and she comforted herself with the thought that Stephen must have exaggerated the effects of the spell.

  When he had finished caring for their blades, Devlin repacked their gear and stored it in the second of the two rooms that had been allotted to them. Then he put his cloak back on and went out, saying he wanted to check on the condition of their horses and inspect their tack.

  Stephen left soon thereafter, to visit the local shopkeepers and replenish their supplies. He continued to behave as if they might need to resume their journey at a moment’s notice. But there was no harm in his errand, and he promised to buy tea for her if there was any to be found.

  She put on her now dry cloak and went out to the stables to help Devlin; but he waved her off, seemingly content to care for the horses by himself. Saskia knew better than to wander around the village and call attention to herself, so she returned to the inn and accepted a mug of citrine from the inn-wife before going to see Didrik.

  He was sleeping, propped up on pillows to ease the strain on his lungs. She could hear a faint wheeze with each exhalation, and the hair on his temples was soaked with sweat. He looked worse now than he had before the healer’s treatments. She reached out to check on his fever.

  Her hand had barely brushed his cheek before her wrist was caught in a crushing grip. She did not try to pull away, instead waiting as Didrik opened his eyes and blinked away the confusion of his drugged sleep. She could tell the moment he recognized her, for his grip relaxed.

  “Saskia,” he said.

  She nodded and gently disentangled her hand from his. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

  “It is good that you did,” Didrik replied. He levered himself up with his arms, as if to rise. Saskia leaned over and pushed his shoulders firmly down on the pillows. He struggled for a moment, glaring at her, then lay still.

  “What do you need?” she asked.

  “I need you to promise me something. Swear to me that you will not leave Devlin unprotected. Swear that you will not let him leave here on his own.”

  First Stephen and now Didrik. They seemed convinced that Devlin was a madman, immune to all reason and logic. Stephen’s warning she had put down to an overactive imagination, but if Didrik was concerned . . .

  “Devlin is going nowhere. Neither are you. We will stay here till you are fit to travel, then the four of us will journey on to Kingsholm. Just as we had planned.”

  Didrik shook his head. “Damned healer and his potions have made me sicker, not better. I am too weak to travel like this, but Devlin cannot tarry for my sake.” Fever-bright eyes pleaded with her. “You must do this for me. Guard him with your life. He needs someone to protect him, even against himself. Once he is in Kingsholm, you may safely trust him to the City Guard. But till then he is not to be left alone. Not for even an hour. Do you understand?”

  She did not understand. But even as she hesitated, she could see that Didrik was becoming agitated, and that would do him no good.

  “Swear to me that you will protect him,” he repeated. “Or I will rise from this bed and do it myself.”

  “Peace,” she said. “Rest easy. I have already sworn to see Devlin safely in Kingsholm, and I will not forsake my oath. When he leaves here I will go with him. You have my word on it, as a warrior.”

  She had to repeat her promise twice before it sank in. Reassured that he had not failed in his duty, Didrik fell back asleep, and this time he did not wake even when she straightened his blankets.

  She wanted to dismiss Didrik’s concerns as the product of a feverish mind. But when she left his chamber, she crossed the hall to the room allotted to her and repacked her gear in her saddlebags, ensuring that she would be ready to leave on a moment’s notice. Just in case.

  Three

  DEVLIN KNEW HE COULD WAIT NO LONGER. IT was time to leave. After three days under the care of the healer Jonam, Didrik was finally beginning to show signs of improvement. The sickly gray had left his complexion, and his breath no longer rattled quite so deeply in his lungs. But he was still very weak, and it would be many days before he was fit enough to travel.

  Days that Devlin did not have. Each day, from the moment he awoke until the hour when he finally fell into a restless sleep, there was but a single thought that consumed him. He must fulfill his duty and return to Kingsholm. It had taken all of his willpower to delay this long, to ensure that Didrik would survive. Now he must leave.

  Which presented him with another dilemma. Didrik was his friend, and it went against everything that Devlin believed in to leave him here alone, in the care of strangers. Yet it was too risky for Devlin to travel to the capital on his own. Last fall assassins had dogged his footsteps, and he had no reason to expect that his enemies had resigned themselves to his return. Didrik would be safe enough at the inn, while Devlin could need the help of both Stephen and Saskia to overcome any obstacles he might face.

  Devlin paced the length of the tiny chamber he had been given. He had retreated here earlier because his impatience had made him foul-tempered. He glanced toward the foot of the bed and confirmed that his gear was fully packed, for experience had taught him he might have to make a hasty departure. He knew that Saskia and Stephen would also be ready to leave the moment he gave them the word. All that remained was to inform his companions and saddle their horses.

  Didrik was a warrior. He would understand.

  Devlin felt the tension in his shoulders ease as he realized that he had made his decision. A glance through the narrow window revealed that it would soon be dark. Too late to resume the journey, but they could leave at first light. Both they and the horses had benefited from their days of rest, and without the burden of an injured companion, they could ride hard and make up for some of the time they had lost.

  He decided he would inform Didrik first, and then tell the others to make their preparations. But as he opened the door, he saw Mistress Kasja standing in the hall, her fist raised as if she was about to knock. Devlin took a hasty step back.

  “Your pardon, sir,” she said. “I was just coming to fetch you.”

  “Is anything amiss?”

  “Yes, I mean no, that is, err, my lord,” she stammered.

  Devlin took a deep breath and waited for the woman to calm herself. He had never suspected her of a nervous temperament.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “There is a company of armsmen downstairs, sent by Baron Martell. They say they have a message for the Chosen One. . . .” Her voice trailed off, as she peered at Devlin quizzically, apparently unable to reconcile the legendary Chosen One with the humble
traveler who had been her guest for these past days.

  It was not her fault that she confused the office with the man. He wondered how she would have treated him if he had arrived wearing his dress uniform.

  “Then you had best take me to them,” Devlin said. He took down the sword belt that hung on the wall and buckled it around his waist. It never hurt to be prepared.

  “Of course, my lord.” She bobbed a hasty curtsy, then turned and led the way.

  He could hear voices raised in conversation as they approached. Saskia was waiting at the doorway, and as he entered the common room, she took up a position on his right side. There were only a half dozen armsmen in the room, but they were fully armed and seemed to fill the space with their presence. Despite their uniforms he knew this might well be a trap, so he rested his right hand on the hilt of the Sword of Light.

  “Who is in charge?” he asked.

  A tall man stepped forward and bowed low. “My Lord Chosen One, I am Pers Sundgren, commander of Baron Martell’s armsmen.”

  The rest of the attachment drew themselves to attention and saluted.

  Devlin responded with a nod. He did not remove his hand from his sword.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Saskia’s left arm twitch and knew she had released a throwing knife into her hand, ready for a quick release should the situation turn ugly.

  “What is your errand with me?”

  “King Olafur sent a messenger bird to the baron, instructing him to send out armsmen to find you and to speed your swift return to the royal court. We have been seeking you for the past three days.”

  Devlin wracked his brains trying to remember what he knew of Baron Martell. The baron’s holdings were small, but his title was an old one. He had met the man during the last court session, but his overall impression was that the baron was firmly committed to the middle ground. A young man with an old man’s politics, favoring neither Devlin’s supporters nor his conservative opponents.

  A man trusted by both sides, his loyalty should be unquestioned. Then again, traitors did not declare themselves openly. Martell’s public neutrality might well be a shield for more nefarious activities. Though if he had wished Devlin dead, it was far more likely that he would have tried to ambush him on the road.