Devlin's Honor Read online

“The stone is wrong. It should be dark crimson, so dark it seems nearly black,” Devlin whispered, though a part of him felt like screaming.

  “It is dark,” Stephen said, and Devlin jumped. He had not realized that the others had joined him. “The stone glows when the sword is wielded in battle by the Chosen One,” Stephen explained.

  But Captain Drakken had understood what Stephen had not. “How do you know of the stone’s appearance?”

  Devlin took a step back from the wall, then another, although his eyes did not leave the painting.

  “Because I have held that sword in my hands.” He tasted bile and for a brief moment he fought the urge to vomit. But there was no denying the truth of what he saw, or of what he knew.

  Devlin had thought the Geas an evil thing, for it replaced his will with its own. But had there ever been a moment when his destiny was his own to command? Or had his feet been set on the path that led him here from the moment he first beheld the sword of the Chosen One?

  “How is that possible?” Captain Drakken asked.

  Devlin did not answer. He turned on his heel and began to walk away. He needed to get out of here. Quickly. Before he gave in to the urge to smash something.

  But he could not flee fast enough to escape his friends. Stephen caught up with him and grabbed his sleeve. “You have seen it? You know where it is?”

  Devlin shook his arm free. “The Sword was lost at Ynnis, was it not?”

  Stephen nodded. “During the final hours of the siege, when Lord Saemund was killed.”

  “During the massacre,” Devlin corrected. His people had their own memories of Ynnis, and none of them were kind to the Jorskians. Lord Saemund may have been Chosen One, but he deserved to suffer in the Dread Lord’s realm for all eternity for what his troops had done. Men, women, and even children had been slaughtered, and those not killed by the soldiers perished in the flames as the army set the city to the torch. Those who survived were too few to bury the dead, and to this day Ynnis remained a ruin, inhabited only by her restless ghosts.

  Still, Ynnis had been a small city, and the destruction there had not befallen the rest of Duncaer. Most Caerfolk, including Devlin, had done their best to put the siege from their minds. The war was long over, and there was no sense in brooding about the past.

  But now the past had come back to haunt them.

  Devlin ran his left hand through his hair, trying to think of a way to explain. “When I was a boy, my parents apprenticed me to Master Roric, a metalsmith. Like my parents, Master Roric was a survivor of the massacre at Ynnis.”

  “You say massacre, but that is not how it is recorded,” Captain Drakken said.

  “I care not what tales you tell, or what the minstrel sings,” Devlin said, his clipped tones revealing his anger. “My parents were both children who were lucky to survive, for all their nearkin perished on that day.”

  His parents had been cared for by other refugees until they reached Alvaren and found shelter with kin so distant they could scarcely even be called farkin. And yet they had taken the children in, raised them, and in time found trades for them. But those who survived Ynnis had a special bond that kept them a closely knit community within the teeming capital city. Kameron and Talaith’s friendship had ripened into love, and they had married when they became adults. When it was time to apprentice their youngest son, it was natural that they turn to one of the other survivors of Ynnis.

  “Master Roric was already a journeyman smith in Ynnis during the siege. He never spoke of how he managed to survive, or of what he had lost on that day. But he did have one reminder of the battle.”

  “A sword,” Captain Drakken said.

  “A sword,” Devlin agreed. “A sword so fine it was surely the work of a great master, made of steel that shimmered in the light, flexible and yet stronger than any blade I have seen before or since.”

  Master Roric had kept the sword in a chest, for it was both an object of great value and one that seemed to hold painful memories. From time to time he would bring it forth and let the best of his students study it as an encouragement to them in their own craft.

  “So you know where the sword is?” Lieutenant Didrik asked.

  “No. But I know where it was,” Devlin answered.

  Three

  AFTER HIS UNCANNY REVELATIONS, THE CHOSEN One had stalked off, and so plain was his anger that none dared follow. Captain Drakken exchanged a glance with Lieutenant Didrik, who raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  Only the minstrel Stephen seemed oblivious to the tension. His face was transfixed with wonder as he murmured, “The Sword of Light.”

  “He has seen the sword,” Lieutenant Didrik echoed.

  “But what does this mean?” Stephen said.

  “It may mean nothing. Only that by some strange twist of fate, the Gods have sent us the one man who can return the sword that was lost,” Captain Drakken said, trying to reassure herself as much as the others.

  But Devlin had worn the look of a man faced with painful memories, and she did not think he would be able to banish them as swiftly as they had come. And she could not risk this new revelation damaging the frail alliances that they had begun to build in service of the Kingdom.

  “Didrik, send word to the watch commanders. I want every guard to keep an eye for Devlin and let me know when he is found. He may try to slip out of the city quietly, without telling anyone.”

  “You think he will go after the sword?” Didrik asked.

  “I do not know what he will do,” she answered honestly. “But I know he is angry now, and that may drive him to some foolish action, perhaps even leaving Kingsholm in the heat of his anger, ill equipped and unprepared for a winter journey.”

  It took the guards less than an hour to report back that Devlin was in the practice yard, methodically destroying one wooden target after another with his great axe.

  Captain Drakken spent the rest of the day busy with her own duties, inspecting the watch at the city gates, meeting with a delegation of merchants from the great square who complained about an outbreak of petty thievery, then approving the watch schedules that Lieutenant Embeth had drawn up. But even as she went about her tasks, a part of her mind kept returning to the Chosen One and the mystery of the Sword of Light. She realized that it was only a matter of time before Devlin would have to go after the sword, for the sake of the Kingdom.

  And once his anger cooled, the same thought would occur to him as well.

  She worked through the dinner hour and late into the night. Each time she heard footsteps outside her office, she looked up, expecting to see the Chosen One. But he did not come. Finally, in the middle of the night watch, she decided she had let him brood long enough.

  Donning her cloak against the night chill, Captain Drakken left the Guard Hall and made her way across the great courtyard to the north tower. The guard on duty at the base of the tower saluted as he saw her approach.

  “All quiet?” she asked, returning the salute.

  “Yes, Captain. All is at peace,” the guard, Behra, said, in the traditional response.

  Her eyes glanced upward to the battlements and Behra’s glance followed hers. “He is still up there,” Behra said.

  The guard opened the door to the tower and Captain Drakken made her way inside, then up the narrow circular stairs that led to the battlements. As she opened the door at the top, she was struck by a chill blast of wind. The night air, cold enough in the protected courtyard, was positively glacial up here.

  She walked the perimeter battlements until she found Devlin on the south side. He had chosen the most dangerous perch, for he sat on top of the narrow railing. She was reminded of that night over a year and a half ago when she had sought out the new Chosen One and given him his first quest. Then Devlin had been a stranger to her, a tool that had yet to prove its value. His past had been of little interest to her, or to any other in the city.

  Now they entrusted him with the safety of the Kingdom. And yet they still kne
w little of his people, or of Devlin’s past. He had volunteered few details, and there had seemed no reason to be concerned. Until now.

  The conquest of Duncaer had taken place over fifty years ago, before she had been born. As a novice guard, she had known grizzled veterans who had been young soldiers at the time of the conquest. And though these veterans often boasted of their heroic deeds, they were strangely silent regarding the events at Ynnis.

  What she knew of that battle was the history that all children were taught. Ynnis was a small city, located deep in the south of Duncaer. The last free city in Duncaer, it had been doomed from the moment the siege began. The people of Ynnis recognized the futility of their struggle, and with supplies running low, they agreed to surrender the city.

  Lord Saemund, the Chosen One, had led his troops into the city, only to discover that the surrender had been a ruse. Without warning, the Caerfolk had attacked. After a bloody struggle the trained soldiers of the Royal Army had won the day, but not before Lord Saemund had been killed. In retaliation his troops had put the city to the torch.

  It was not a pretty tale, but armies had been known to do far worse when confronted with the loss of a beloved leader. The accounts she had heard all said that the folk of Ynnis had been allowed to leave their city before it had been destroyed. When pressed for details on the battle, those who had been there had always demurred, claiming that it was too painful to remember the loss of the Chosen One.

  There had been no whisper of a massacre in the tales she had heard. Yet it was plain that Devlin had been told a far different story, one that gave him little reason to love those who had conquered his people.

  Not for the first time, it occurred to her to wonder if Devlin would still be as eager to serve as Chosen One, were it not for the Geas that bound him to his duty.

  Devlin’s head turned as he heard her approach. In the flickering torchlight she saw that his eyes were bleak, and his face shuttered and unreadable.

  “You must go after the sword,” she said, without preamble.

  “I know,” Devlin said. “Even now, the Geas tugs at my will. Soon I will not be able to ignore its call.”

  He turned his face away from her, back to whatever had caught his attention. She wondered what he saw.

  “Winter is not far off, but if you start now, you can be well south before the heavy snows. You will need an escort. I can have a squad of guards ready to travel in a day’s time, or you can send to the army garrison should you think it more politic.”

  Devlin shook his head. “There will be enough difficulty over my return to Duncaer as things are. I do not need an armed escort and the trouble it will bring.”

  “But you cannot travel alone,” she argued. Especially not if he was retreating into the darkness that had gripped him when he had first arrived. In that mood, Devlin might well be careless of his life, and the Chosen One was far too valuable to take foolish risks.

  “I will take Didrik. And Stephen, if he has lost his taste for the comforts of city life.”

  It was less than she had hoped, but better than nothing. Lieutenant Didrik was a trained warrior, and the minstrel had proven his courage in the past.

  There was a long moment of silence, then Devlin asked, “Do you believe in fate?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “From the moment we are born, each of us makes our own path and our own luck.”

  “So I once thought,” Devlin said. “Yet there are only a handful of folk who have seen the Sword of Light in the years since Ynnis. It passes all belief that my presence here as Chosen One is mere coincidence.”

  There was nothing she could say to that.

  “Perhaps they were right to name me kinslayer,” Devlin added, in tones so low she could scarcely hear him.

  “What do you mean?”

  Devlin leaned back, swung his legs around so they were on the inside ledge, then stood to face her. “If my family had not been killed, I would still be in Duncaer. I would never have become an exile, never have heard of the Chosen Ones, never been foolish and desperate enough to journey to this place. The Gods wanted a tool to return the Sword of Light.” He took a quick breath, his fists clenched by his sides. “Cerrie was killed because she loved me, and because I never would have left Duncaer were she still alive.”

  “No,” Drakken said swiftly. “You must not think that. I do not believe the Gods would be so cruel.”

  “Then you have more faith in the Gods than I,” he replied.

  “So what will you do?”

  He laughed mirthlessly, and the sound made her flesh crawl, for it was the sound of a man who stood again on the edge of madness. “I have no choice, do I? The Gods set my feet on this path, and now the Geas binds me to their will, regardless of what I think or feel. I will fetch the sword as they command. But one day I will face Lord Haakon, and I will demand a reckoning.”

  His eyes glittered darkly, and such was his intensity that she had no doubt that in time Devlin would demand such a reckoning, regardless of the consequences.

  Four

  DEVLIN SHIVERED AS THE NORTHERN WIND GUSTED through the battlements, tugging at his cloak, and chilling his exposed flesh. The late-afternoon sky above him was leaden gray, filled with the promise of rain. From the shelter of the southern watchtower the guard eyed Devlin warily, but knew better than to question his presence. The Chosen One had made it clear that he was not to be approached. The battlements were his own private retreat, the one place he could be certain of solitude.

  He needed this time to reflect. The past two days had been a blur of activity as he made ready to leave on this quest. Once Devlin would have been able to slip out of the palace unnoticed, but those days were long gone. Now he was a King’s councilor and the General of the Royal Army, and neither role could be easily abandoned.

  The cold outside was a fitting match for the chill within his soul. Tomorrow he would leave this place and return to his homeland. Yet this thought brought no joy. When he had left Duncaer, he had sworn never to return. Now, less than two years later, the fates had conspired to prove him a liar.

  He gazed toward the southwest, his eyes tracing the path as the city of Kingsholm gave way to smaller settlements, interspersed with tidy farms. In the distance there was a darker blur where the cultivated farmland began to give way to forests. And beyond the forests were hills, and that would be but the start of his journey.

  It would be a long trek, made worse by the season, for winter was nearly upon them. And there was the knowledge that this effort could all be for naught. He might waste months traveling, only to find that the sword was no longer there.

  What would he do then? Would he spend the rest of his life hunting for the cursed object? Could he bear to be in Duncaer and yet not part of it? To his family and friends he was as one already dead. He would be a ghost to them, a walking phantom, his isolation made even more complete by the uniform he wore. The uniform of their conquerors.

  He would give anything not to go on this journey. To stay here in Jorsk while someone else went to fetch the sword. But the choice was not his. It had never been his, really, and the bitterness of that knowledge ate away at his soul.

  He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, feeling the chill of the granite seep into his bones. Lost in silent contemplation, he did not move until he heard the sound of booted footsteps approaching. Devlin opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon as the intruder approached.

  “I thought better of you than this. If you leave now on this fool’s errand, all that you have done here will be wasted,” Solveig said, coming to stand in front of him and blocking his view. She was dressed in a rabbit-fur cloak, with the hood pulled up over her head against the wind, but there was no mistaking the anger in her gaze.

  “How did you find me?” Few people outside of the guards knew his habit of retreating to the battlements when he needed to be alone. Even Stephen had never followed Devlin here, so his sister’s presence was a surprise.


  “I have been hunting you since morning, when I first learned of this folly. Finally, I went to the Guard Hall and persuaded Captain Drakken to tell me where you could be found. She was reluctant, but I convinced her I needed to see you before you left.”

  “You have seen me,” Devlin replied.

  “And I tell you, you must not go. This is a ruse to divert your attention from Kingsholm. We have spent months building our coalition, but without you at its center it will fall apart. The conservatives will dominate the council, and the borderlands will be left on their own. Again.”

  “I know this,” Devlin replied. The trip to Duncaer and back would take four months in good weather, six months if the weather was poor. And there was no telling how long it would take to retrieve the sword once he was there. By the time Devlin returned to the capital, his deeds would be long forgotten, and his influence with the King would be nil.

  Besides there was no certainty that he would return at all. It was common knowledge that the borderlands were dangerous places. He might well be walking into an ambush, his death conveniently dismissed as just one more victim of the unrest. Either way, dead or exiled on this fool’s errand, his enemies would win.

  Solveig threw up her hands in apparent disgust. “Then if you know this, why do you go? Stay here and do what you have sworn to do. Help us strengthen the Kingdom so we are ready for the war that we all know is coming.”

  If only matters were that simple. If it were his choice, he would let the damn sword rot in Duncaer. He did not need a fabled sword to prove his worth. He had defeated Duke Gerhard and foiled the invasion of Korinth on his own. Holding the Sword of Light would not make him stronger, or wiser, or more brave. Crippled as he was, he could not even use a two-handed sword.

  And he had reasons of his own for not wanting to return to his homeland.

  But all this meant nothing against the pull of the Geas. Even now he could hear its song in the back of his mind, urging him on. For now the voice was faint, but it was growing in strength. The longer he resisted, the stronger it would grow until he could think of nothing else.