Devlin's Honor Read online

  Halfway through his first circuit, the troop captain had encountered an ingenious band of outlaws who had imposed their own form of tolls upon travelers. Rather than pursuing the outlaws and arresting them, the troop captain had halted his advance and sent a messenger to the capital, asking for instructions.

  The scroll had been dated over a fortnight ago. By now the outlaws would be long gone from the province, no doubt laughing at the expense of the Royal Army.

  Still, what was done was done. It was now up to Devlin to set things right. “Didrik, who is the next senior troop captain?” he called out.

  He heard the sound of shuffling papers, then the scrape of wooden chair legs across the floor, as Didrik rose from his desk. He leaned his head into Devlin’s own office. “There are no senior troop captains in garrison, except those you have already designated as free from duties. However there is a junior troop captain, Rika Linasdatter.”

  “She will do. Send a messenger to the garrison, and tell her to report to me at once. I am sending her out to replace that useless worm Poul Karlson. If she succeeds in clearing the highway, then I will raise her to senior troop captain.”

  “Do you wish me to scribe the orders?” Lieutenant Didrik asked, his gaze touching lightly on Devlin’s maimed right hand.

  Devlin shook his head. “No, I can do this. I need you to finish the muster lists, and the allocation for the provincial armsmen.”

  He waited until Lieutenant Didrik returned to his own office before he pulled out a blank piece of parchment from the center drawer of the desk. Taking the pen in his hand, he dipped it in the inkwell and began to write. “Troop Captain Poul Karlson, you are instructed to turn over your command to the officer bearing this scroll and return with all haste to the capital garrison… .”

  The official wording came easily to him, for he had written such orders several times in the three months since he had been named General of the Royal Armies. It was a post for which he was far less qualified than even Lieutenant Didrik, yet when the King had offered the honor, Devlin had not been able to refuse.

  Only later did he realize that the post was more punishment than reward. Unlike the City Guard, where officers such as Didrik began in the ranks and rose by merit, the Royal Army drew its officers from the noble families of Jorsk. Political influence had been far more important than skill in advancing the careers of its officers. This alone would have caused problems for any new general. But Devlin had been named to his post when he had defeated the former general, Duke Gerhard, in a duel, and exposed the duke as a traitor.

  Many of the most senior officers owed their positions to their friendship with Duke Gerhard, and they felt little loyalty to their new general. They blamed Devlin, as if he were somehow responsible for the Duke’s treachery. And those who were not bitter over the death of the Duke resented Devlin for his humble origins.

  And Devlin, as a stranger to the army and its politics, had no clear means of separating out those officers who were merely incompetent from those who were actively disloyal. Left to himself he would have purged the officer corps, but he could not do so. Not when the army might be called upon to fight a war at any time. And not when he needed the support of the very same noble families whose kin made up the corps.

  In the end, the officers were given a chance to prove themselves. So far, many had performed well. Those like Poul Karlson who showed themselves unfit were swiftly dealt with. Upon his return to Kingsholm, the failed senior troop captain would be strongly encouraged to resign his commission. Should he refuse, he would find himself permanently assigned to the garrison, his name on the private list of those who were never to receive another command.

  Devlin scrawled his name at the bottom of the orders, then stamped it with the seal of his rank. He folded the parchment but did not seal it. The new troop captain should see the orders she was carrying to ensure there would be no misunderstandings.

  He pulled out another piece of parchment and began to write a separate set of orders for the new troop captain. “Junior Troop Captain Rika Linas—”

  His right hand spasmed, and the pen seemed to leap out of his grasp, flying across the desk until it landed on top of a stack of unread reports. Black ink ran from the pen, staining first the reports, then his left hand, as he picked it up and set it back down on the blotter.

  “Blast!” he swore, as his right hand spasmed again. This time it twitched and fell off the desk to hang uselessly by his side. There was a moment of blinding pain as the muscles cramped. Then, mercifully, the pain was gone, replaced by a tingling numbness that ran from his fingertips to his shoulder.

  Since his right arm no longer obeyed him, Devlin used his left hand to reach down and lift it up, placing his maimed hand palm side up on the desk as he tried to rub feeling back into the arm with his other hand.

  He stared balefully at the two fingers and thumb that were all that remained on his right hand, and the angry red scar that cut across his palm. He willed his fingers to close, but they stubbornly remained open. At least they had stopped twitching.

  He continued massaging his arm, even though he knew from bitter experience that it would be hours before sensation returned and the hand was once again his to command.

  “I should feel lucky.”

  “What did you say?” Lieutenant Didrik called.

  “Nothing,” Devlin replied. He had not realized he had said the words aloud. He should feel lucky, he reminded himself. Lucky that the healers had been able to save as much of the hand as they had. Though he had lost the two smallest fingers and a chunk of his palm, the rest of the hand remained. And he had use of it, after a fashion. Even these spasms afflicted him less often than they once had. In time, Master Osvald had assured him that the spasms would cease all together—although the master healer had been vague over just how long it would take. Instead, the healer had urged patience, as if Devlin had naught to do but wait for his traitorous body to heal.

  Devlin had thanked the healer for his advice, then set grimly about the task of discovering what he could and could not do. It had taken nearly a month for him to gain even rudimentary control of his fingers. Then the real work had begun. The transverse bow proved no difficulty, for the left arm bore the weight, and only two fingers were required to load and fire the bolts. The war-axe was more of a problem, for the grip of his right hand lacked the strength it had once had, and thus the full force of his right arm was not translated into each stroke. Where once he had been able to deliver killing blows, now he would only maim. But muscles could be strengthened, and in time he would learn to compensate.

  The sword was another matter. His grip was clumsy, even when he tried using a two-handed long sword. The few practice bouts he had attempted had all ended in ignominious defeats. Master Timo, the Royal Armorer, was experimenting on different grips for the hilt of Devlin’s sword, but so far the armorer’s craft had failed to produce a workable solution.

  Devlin would just have to try harder.

  Two

  “THEN WE ARE AGREED. THE ARMSMEN WILL BE USED to reinforce the border with Nerikaat,” Devlin said, leaning over the map and tapping the northwestern corner of the kingdom with one finger. “The southern provinces will have to wait until the next wave of reinforcements in the spring.”

  He looked up from the maps spread over his worktable.

  “Agreed,” Captain Drakken said. Lieutenant Didrik merely nodded.

  Devlin began rolling up the map. “Lieutenant, I will need to inform the senior army commanders of my decision. Send a message and ask that they meet with me on the morrow.”

  “There is the council meeting in the morning,” Lieutenant Didrik reminded him.

  “Shall I ask the officers to meet you at the first hour past noon?”

  “That will serve.” Devlin placed the rolled up map inside the wooden tube, then fitted the cap back on. “Captain Drakken, I thank you for the courtesy of your time and counsel.”

  Captain Drakken dipped her head i
n the show of respect between friends or equals. “I am at your service.”

  “And for that I am grateful.”

  Strictly speaking, as the commander of the City Guard, Captain Drakken was concerned with security for the palace and maintaining order within the city. The defense of the realm and disposition of provincial armsmen was more properly a matter for the Royal Army. But Devlin could count on his remaining fingers the number of folk in Jorsk whom he could trust to give him honest advice, and only one of them was a member of the Royal Army. And Major Mikkelson was far from here, having been dispatched to lead the defense of the coastal province of Korinth.

  Thus Devlin had become accustomed to consulting Captain Drakken, taking full advantage of her more than quarter century of experience. Once he had determined his course of action, he then informed the Royal Army officers of his decisions, allowing him to appear a decisive leader. Only he, Lieutenant Didrik, and Captain Drakken knew this for the hollow pretense it was.

  Today they had debated how best to allocate the armsmen who would soon begin to trickle into the capital in response to the summons of the King’s Council. The needs were many, but rather than sending a few armsmen to each of the trouble spots, Captain Drakken had convinced him that the best course of action was to pick one place where their numbers would be enough to tip the balance. That decided, the choice of Ringstadt was simple. Even in peaceful times the border with Nerikaat was a trouble spot. And in these past years Ringstadt had been hard hit. Half their original complement of armsmen had been killed in the past three years, and new recruits often perished before they completed their training.

  He heard the sound of the outer door opening, then footsteps, as a voice called “Devlin?”

  “We are in here,” he replied.

  Stephen paused in the doorway. “I do not wish to interrupt …”

  “No, we were just finished our deliberations. And as I have not seen you in some time, it would be poor courtesy to turn you away.”

  Stephen was the first friend Devlin had made in this strange place, though it had taken him time to acknowledge that friendship—and to accept its burden. Stephen had shared many of Devlin’s adventures, but in these past months they had seen little of each other. Devlin had been consumed with his new responsibilities, and Stephen had made it plain that he wished to pursue his music rather than be caught up in the games of the court.

  Yet somehow the court must have found Stephen, for there was no other reason for him to look so unhappy, or to have sought Devlin out in his offices rather than his private quarters.

  Captain Drakken glanced at Stephen, then back at Devlin. “I will leave you now.”

  “No,” Stephen said. “You and Lieutenant Didrik will want to hear this as well.”

  Devlin perched on the corner of his desk, wondering what had brought Stephen here. He nodded encouragingly.

  “I played last night for a wine merchant, Soren Tyrvald.”

  “I know of him,” Captain Drakken interjected. “He has a reputation for shrewd dealing. Shrewd, but honest.”

  Stephen nodded, his narrow face pale. “A respected merchant, not one to get himself involved in political schemes. Or so I would have said before last night.”

  “And now?” Devlin prompted.

  “Last night Soren drew me aside for private speech. He claims to have heard rumors that certain nobles are objecting to your claim to be Chosen One. That if you were the true Chosen One, then the Gods would have given you the Sword of Light.”

  “Is that all?” Devlin asked.

  “Merchant Tyrvald asked me to make sure you knew of this rumor, and that it was likely an attempt to diminish your influence with the commoners,” Stephen said. His shoulders slumped as if he had given up some great burden.

  Devlin could see that Stephen felt used, but his message was hardly unexpected. “I have heard this tale before,” Devlin said. “Over a week ago, it became clear that there was some new rumor circulating through the court. It took only a day before a helpful soul felt compelled to tell me what was being said.”

  Captain Drakken rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder who gave this news to the merchant? Lady Vendela’s faction would not stoop so low. Or would they?”

  Devlin shrugged. “It could be anyone. Even the palace servants have heard the tale, so I am surprised that you had not learned of this before now.”

  “It is a clever ploy, I will grant you that,” Captain Drakken observed. “At the very least, it may cast doubt on your stature. At best, they may succeed in convincing the King to have you search for the sword.”

  “Thus removing me from the court and from the deliberations of the King’s Council,” Devlin added. He had expected this rumor to die out, but instead it seemed to be growing stronger with each passing day.

  At least there was one mercy. Though he had not voiced it aloud, Devlin was convinced that those who plotted against him had yet another goal in spreading this rumor. They hoped that the Geas that bound him would compel Devlin to seek out the Sword of Light, whether he wished to or not. Some could have argued that such was his duty as Chosen One. But this time the Gods were merciful, and the Geas had not stirred from where it slept at the back of his mind.

  “And how do they expect me to search for this sword?” Devlin asked, trying for a mocking tone. “There must have been dozens of copies forged over the years. Now they are scattered around the Kingdom, rotting alongside those that bore them.”

  “There are no copies,” Stephen said. “There was only one Sword of Light. When Lord Saemund perished and the sword was lost, they forged a new sword for the next Chosen One. But it was not a duplicate. The armorer felt it would be impious to make a copy, since the Sword of Light had been forged by a son of Egil.”

  Devlin snorted in disgust. “They say such things of all great swords. Why not claim the Forge God himself made it?”

  “It is what is said,” Stephen insisted.

  Devlin forbore to argue. Stephen’s passion had been the lore of the past Chosen Ones, and he knew more of their history than any other in the Kingdom. If Devlin objected, Stephen might feel compelled to share more of the sword’s supposed history. There might even be a song or two of its forging, which Devlin was in no mood to hear.

  Still, the part of Devlin that had once been a metalsmith was intrigued. What had the Sword of Light looked like? Had it been a two-handed great sword? A long sword in the more modern style? Or something entirely different?

  “Are there any descriptions or drawings of this sword?” he asked.

  “There is a hall of portraits, little visited now, but in there is a portrait of Donalt the Wise. And I seem to recall he is holding the Sword of Light,” Captain Drakken said.

  “Can you guide us there?” Devlin asked.

  “Of course.”

  Captain Drakken led them from the western wing where Devlin had his offices to the older central block of the palace. The hallways grew progressively narrower, and the stones beneath their feet more worn as they made their way up to the fourth level. They traveled down a corridor, with rooms branching off either side. Through the open doorways Devlin glimpsed marble sculptures, a room filled with decorative porcelains, and another room that held boxes or perhaps furniture hidden beneath white shrouds.

  At the end of the corridor, an archway led into a long room that ran the full two-hundred-foot length of the tower. Light streamed in from windows set high up on the three exterior walls. Devlin paused. The wall before him was covered with paintings of various sizes and styles, hung from high above down to the very floor. He turned around slowly and saw that the other three walls were equally covered. A battle scene with life-size figures hung next to a jumbled collection of small portraits. There were gilt frames, tarnished silver frames, and those of plain wood, and the mix of subjects was equally diverse. There seemed no rhyme or reason to their placement.

  “Where do we start?” Lieutenant Didrik asked.

  Captain Drakken w
ent over to the northern wall. She leaned forward, peering at the pictures as she walked down along the line. Then she straightened up. “Here,” she said.

  Devlin came over, with Lieutenant Didrik and Stephen following.

  Captain Drakken pointed to a medium-sized portrait. “Donalt the Wise.”

  Donalt, often called the last of the great Chosen Ones, was shown as a man in his middle years, with long blond hair done in a warrior’s braid. His features were harsh, and his blue eyes stared directly forward, as if they could see into the viewer’s soul. Across his back he wore a baldric. Only the hilt of the sword was visible above his shoulder.

  It couldn’t be. And yet …

  Devlin swallowed hard. “Is there a better picture of the sword?”

  “My age is beginning to tell, for I had remembered this differently,” Captain Drakken said. “Still there must be another portrait in here. We should keep looking.”

  They split apart, one to each of the four walls. Devlin took the southern wall, the one farthest from the portrait of Donalt. His eyes scanned the pictures, but he was not really seeing them. It could not be, he told himself. His mind was playing tricks.

  He craned his neck upward, and then he saw it. A young woman, who bore an unmistakable resemblance to Donalt, held the sword extended in front of her as she fought off an armored warrior. Behind her, crouching next to the uncertain shelter of a boulder, was a young boy. The artist had been truly gifted, for he had managed to capture not only the boy’s fear, but also a sense of the woman’s fierce determination. One knew that she looked her own death in the face, and that she was not afraid.

  But any admiration for the artist’s skill was lost when Devlin contemplated the Sword of Light, which had been depicted with equal skill. It was clearly a long sword, with a tapering blade. The grip was unusual, for instead of a single curved crossbar there was a double guard of two straight bars, one longer than the other. And in the pommel was set a stone that shone with red fire.