The murdered youth could well be one of Magnilda’s folk. It was a sobering thought, and Devlin regretted once again that he had no name to give the boy, no means to tell his kin of his fate. Arnaud might have wielded the blade, but Devlin felt responsible for his death.
Once he had known what it was to be an honorable man. Then his life had been simple. Duty to family and kin. Duty to craft and those tied by the bonds of friendship. Now, who was he? Where did his duty lie?
Could he return to Duncaer and be the man he had once been? Or were those the thoughts of a coward?
Devlin owed King Olafur nothing. Indeed, the King was as one dead to him. For weeks he had thought of returning to Kingsholm to seek revenge, but Devlin had burned out his taste for vengeance during the long hours in which he had made Prince Arnaud suffer.
But what did he owe to the people of Jorsk? Those who believed in him as Chosen One and looked to him for their protection? Folk like Lord Brynjolf, the Baron of Esker, battling against the anarchy of the northlands, protecting his people when the King had failed. Brynjolf, who held nothing back, sending even his own children into deadly danger. Or Magnilda, who was as far removed in rank and wealth from the Baron as one could be. In her own way, she also did all in her power to keep her people safe.
Devlin had made promises. To Brynjolf and Magnilda, to his friends, and to a host of others great and small. He had sworn he would do whatever was in his power to protect the folk of Jorsk and keep them safe.
Those words had not been in a formal oath, nor had they been prompted by the hellish spell. They had come from his heart. From a man who had found a new purpose for his life when he realized that he could use his strength and skills to protect those who could not defend themselves.
Olafur had rejected Devlin, spurning his efforts to serve. Arnaud had lifted the Geas spell. But as the long night wore on, Devlin realized that neither had changed who he was. He was still Devlin of Duncaer. He had a sword and the will to use it. It would have to be enough.
When dawn came, he began to head north.
“The village appears safe. We crept as close as we could and saw no sign of Selvarat troops,” Didrik said.
Captain Drakken turned to Oluva. “And do you agree?”
Oluva nodded. “I saw no signs of trouble. There are people working the fields and tending their animals. Just what I’d expect to see at this time of year.”
Captain Drakken hesitated. They needed information, but this small village was exposed—if this was a trap, there would be nowhere to run, nowhere they could hide.
“Oluva, you may go. Be cautious. Learn what you can, but tell them nothing of why you are here or who you are with. At the first sign of trouble, we’ll split up and retreat to where we camped two nights ago. Understood?”
There was a ragged chorus of assent. Oluva saluted and began making her way back through the trees, in a direction opposite from the village. She would emerge some distance away, so as not to draw attention to the fringe of the pine forest where the others waited. From here, they could see a league of open meadow, and the village beyond. All appeared calm, but appearances could be deceptive.
A short time later, Oluva’s figure appeared on the road. Drakken’s skin prickled as a group of people gathered at the entrance to the village. Welcoming party? Prudent caution at the sight of a stranger? Or hostile forces? Whoever they were, they surrounded Oluva as she approached and led her deep into the village.
“I’ll keep watch,” Major Mikkelson said.
By rights Mikkelson could have challenged Drakken for leadership of this strange expedition, but he had deferred to her instead. Which was fortunate, for she had lost her taste for following any orders but her own. Still she was careful never to give him a direct order, but rather to phrase her commands as suggestions.
She rose, handing Mikkelson the transverse bow and a handful of bolts before retreating a few hundred paces deeper into the woods, to where they had set up their camp last night. All was ready for a hasty departure. Their horses were saddled, their packs on the ground nearby, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. She could only hope it would be enough.
Stephen stood in the center of the small clearing, holding Devlin’s axe before him. He turned slowly in a circle, three times, pausing finally as the axe pointed northeast.
“Put that away,” she said crossly.
“It’s changed direction again,” Stephen said. “Yesterday it was more north, and now it is easterly. And I think the glow has brightened.”
“It means nothing,” Drakken said. “We followed the axe, once, remember? Now we need to temper hope with reason.”
Stephen stubbornly shook his head. “We are wasting our time. Even now, Devlin could be moving farther away.”
She was tired of these arguments. Had Stephen learned nothing from their earlier mistake? The axe was a crude tool at best. They had followed it to the army encampment, only to discover that Devlin was most likely being held on a nearby estate, where Prince Arnaud resided in luxury. Worse, Mikkelson’s rescue had alerted the soldiers to their presence, and they had been forced to flee the numerous patrols that had combed the countryside. There’d been no chance to try for a second rescue.
Stephen had nearly driven her mad, insisting that he was going back to find Devlin. Alone, if the others were too cowardly to join him. At one point she’d threatened to gag him and tie him to his horse. It might have come to that, if the axe had not seemed to show that Devlin, too, was on the move.
Unlike Stephen, Captain Drakken had learned her lesson. Knowing that Devlin was in this region, they would do their best to find out where he might be held rather than charging blindly ahead. When their path took them near a village that Oluva knew, she had volunteered to speak with those she trusted and find out if there had been any troops passing through the area.
“We will do Devlin no good if we are captured ourselves,” Drakken said. “Oluva will speak to her friends. Find out if they have seen any soldiers or where they might have set up their camp.”
“And if Devlin is being taken to the sea? What then?”
The coast was less than a day’s walk. As they had followed Devlin’s trail north, the sea had never been far from her mind. If she were in command, she would have seen Major Mikkelson’s rescue as a sign that her security was vulnerable. She might well have decided it was time to move her prisoner to safety—perhaps even to remove him from the country entirely.
But even if Devlin were being taken to a ship, he and those who guarded him would be vulnerable while they were on the move. It was a question of finding him in time, without their being discovered.
An hour passed. Stephen paced and grumbled under his breath. Didrik wandered off, obeying her caution to remain within earshot. He returned with handfuls of nearly ripe berries, which they shared among themselves. The scant mouthfuls did nothing to satisfy her hunger. Provisions were low, for there’d been no time for foraging, and they’d been unwilling to risk venturing into a village to buy what was needed.
“If she’s not back in another hour, then we must assume the worst. We’ll mount up and return to our previous camp,” Drakken said.
“We can’t abandon her,” Stephen protested.
“Oluva knew the risks. Losing one of our number is better than losing all of us. And if we wait until sundown, it will be too dark to retreat safely.”
The road would be a death trap if they were pursued by mounted soldiers. Moving along the game trails of the forest was possible—if one had enough light to see by. And with a waning moon, that meant travel was limited to daylight.
Stephen looked to Didrik for support, but Didrik wisely kept his mouth shut. He knew the risks, and in fact he had argued that he be the one to make the approach, not Oluva.
Stephen turned to face her, and she knew from the stubborn look on his face that he was not prepared to accept her judgment. Not for the first time, she wondered how Devlin had managed to travel so long wi
th the minstrel without giving in to the urge to strangle him.
Before Stephen could launch into his argument, a low whistle sounded.
“Get ready,” Drakken said.
She left Stephen and Didrik to see to their mounts, while she made her way to where Mikkelson kept watch.
“Oluva is returning. And she is not alone. There are two people with her,” Mikkelson said.
His eyes were better than hers. She loosened her sword in her scabbard, waiting as the distant blur resolved itself into three people approaching on foot. Oluva was in the lead, flanked on either side. Sunlight glinted off the shoulders of one of her companions, indicating that he might be wearing a sword across his back, or possibly a steel bow.
The three approached swiftly, but without undue haste. There was no sign of pursuit from the village. It was possible Oluva was bringing back those who had news that could help Drakken and the others. It was also possible that Oluva was luring these two out to her friends, where they could be eliminated.
Mikkelson loaded a bolt in the transverse bow and cocked it. Drakken drew her sword.
The group paused, just outside of effective bowshot. Oluva appeared to be arguing with the man on her right. After a long moment she threw up her hands in apparent disgust, then walked forward until she was within shouting distance.
“Captain, I’ve brought a friend, but he will not reveal himself until you come out where we can see you,” Oluva shouted.
“You’ve brought two of them,” Drakken answered. She remained partially hidden behind a tree. From here she could see the woman carried a cudgel, while the man to whom Oluva had spoken did indeed have a sword across his back. A sword that he now drew and held loosely in his right hand. A prudent precaution in this troubled land. They had taken the risk of coming this far, it was up to her to cross the final distance.
“Stay hidden,” Drakken told Mikkelson. “And at the first sign of trouble, take out the swordsman.”
At this range it would take an expert shot. Mikkelson merely nodded.
Drakken stepped out of the woods. She held her sword in her right hand, point down, indicating that she was not an immediate threat.
The villagers waited, remaining just out of bowshot, as she approached Oluva.
Oluva grimaced and spread her hands wide. “He still seems to think this is a trap,” she explained. “Maybe you can convince him otherwise.”
Oluva turned and walked with Drakken toward the villagers. There was something familiar about the man’s figure, though his face was hidden in the shadow of his hood. A suspicion grew in her. “Who is he?” she demanded.
Before Oluva could answer, with his free hand the man pulled back the hood of his cloak.
It was Devlin. After all these weeks of searching, he had been the one to find her.
“Devlin!” she exclaimed. She sheathed her sword in one fluid motion.
Ominously, Devlin made no move to do the same. Drakken glanced at the woman villager, but if Devlin was worried about her, it did not show. Instead his attention was fixed upon the woods behind her, as if he expected an imminent attack.
“Captain Drakken,” he said. He did not smile, nor was there any warmth to his greeting. “Who is with you?” he asked.
“Mikkelson is in the woods, with a bow. Stephen and Didrik are nearby.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
“See, it is just as I told you,” Oluva said.
They both ignored her.
“Call them out,” Devlin ordered.
“You don’t trust us,” Drakken said, stung by the realization. She had given up her post, forsworn her oaths, and risked her life for a man who no longer trusted her word.
He favored her with a mirthless grin. “We will talk about trust later. Call them out, where I can see them.”
It went against all her instincts. But the search for Devlin had already taken her far beyond what she knew. She could go this last distance.
“Oluva, tell Mikkelson to stand down and summon the others,” she said.
Oluva took off at a lope. Drakken looped her thumbs in her sword belt and rocked back a bit on her heels. It had been more than half a year since she had seen Devlin. He was thinner than she recalled, and his hair was now more white than black. There were new lines carved into his face, and his expression was unyielding. She was surprised by the ease with which he held the long sword in his crippled hand. And then as her eyes traveled up the blade to its grip, she saw the dark stone set in its pommel.
“Is that it?”
Devlin nodded. “A trinket from my travels.”
She wanted to demand explanations. What did it mean that she found Devlin a free man, carrying the legendary Sword of Light? Had he ever been a prisoner? Had she and the rest somehow misread the signs in Kingsholm? Had the gossips been right when they whispered that Devlin had gone rogue?
She saw Devlin’s frame relax as she heard Stephen’s shout. Stephen brushed by her, and Devlin barely had time to lower his sword before Stephen grabbed him in a fierce embrace.
“I never believed you were dead,” Stephen declared. “I never gave up hope.”
As Stephen released him, Devlin sheathed his sword. He named each of them in turn. “Didrik. Mikkelson. Drakken. Much has changed since I saw you last.”
Gone was his earlier wariness. It seemed Stephen’s presence had been enough to convince Devlin that they meant him no harm.
“We need to talk. And make plans,” Devlin said. He gestured to the woman who had observed the proceedings in silence. “Magnilda is speaker of the village. She has offered us her home for the night. We’ll be safe there.”
“There are patrols on the roads,” Drakken warned him.
“There are patrols everywhere since the Chosen One slew the foreign Prince,” Magnilda declared. “My people are on watch. They will give us fair warning.”
So Prince Arnaud was dead? It seemed they both had stories to tell.
“Oluva, Didrik, you break camp, then join us,” Drakken said as she fell into step beside Devlin.
“What happened to you?” Stephen asked.
“I was betrayed by those I trusted.” Devlin’s voice was cold, and his gaze slid over Drakken.
“King Olafur declared you dead,” she informed him, wanting to see his reaction.
A chill smile touched Devlin’s lips. “That is not the first mistake Olafur has made, but it may well be his last.”
She shivered, not at the threat, but by the matter-of-fact tone of voice in which he made it. Even Stephen was shocked into silence. Theirs should have been a joyous reunion, but instead it was a grim party indeed that made its way into the village.
Nineteen
DEVLIN LOOKED UP AS MAGNILDA ENTERED.
“I’ve brought more kava,” she said, setting a clay pitcher on the rough plank table that dominated the room.
“Thank you,” he said. “All is quiet?”
He knew she would have warned him if there were any trouble, but it was a sign of how off-balance he felt that he needed to ask.
“All quiet,” she repeated, with a patience that he had not expected from her.
“Join us. We need your thoughts.”
Magnilda shrugged, then took a seat next to Mikkelson, who slid down the bench to make room for her. She was a stocky woman, broad-shouldered with hands strong enough to choke the life out of a man, as he well knew. Elected village speaker upon her father’s death, the last year had smoothed the rough edges from her temper. She had no love for the nobles who ruled over her, but she had opened her home to Devlin and given him honest counsel. Though their tentative plans had been overset by the arrival of his friends and allies.
He lifted the jug of kava and refilled his mug, then passed the jug to Stephen, who sat on his left. By now Devlin had drunk so much kava that he would bleed brown not red, and yet it still brought no clarity to his thoughts.
Captain Drakken sat across from him at the table. She watched him with wary
eyes, as did Mikkelson. He knew they had been dismayed by his coldness when they met, but he would not apologize for his caution. He remembered too well the night he had been taken. It had not been just King Olafur who had betrayed him. Marshal Olvarrson, head of the army in Devlin’s absence, had stood alongside the King. And two of the Guard had been present as well. They were the ones who had killed Saskia and bludgeoned Devlin into insensibility.
His captivity had given him long hours to reflect and to wonder who else had chosen allegiance to the King. But his friends had proven themselves beyond measure. Drakken had challenged the King, resigning her post to search for him. Didrik and Oluva had risked their lives, leaving behind everything they knew on the faint hope that they could find him and rescue him. Stephen’s unswerving loyalty was something he had come to expect. Less welcome was the hungry look in Stephen’s eyes. He had come looking not just for a lost friend. He had journeyed here to find the Chosen One. A savior for his people.
What had seemed so simple only the day before was once again fraught with complications.
“Chosen One,” Drakken began.
“Devlin,” he said, interrupting her.
“Devlin, then. What are your plans? How do you intend to fight them?”
“With a sword. Or my axe, now that Stephen has returned it.” Though he was not quite certain that he wanted the axe back, not after hearing what Master Dreng had done to it. The axe had led his friends to him, but he was bitter that yet another piece of his past had been tainted by sorcery.
Drakken favored him with a glare perfected through years of cowing errant recruits. “This is not the time for jests. What are your orders?”
“Orders? Whom do I command? You? Didrik and these others? Shall the seven of us declare war upon the Selvarat Protectorate? Upon Jorsk? Shall we split our forces and attack both at once?”
He had come here to see for himself how the villagers fared and whether they needed the help of a strong sword arm. But he had come here as Devlin, not as the Chosen One, and it was as Devlin that he was determined to remain.
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