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  Commander Sundgren reached into his belt pouch. “I was entrusted with a personal message for you,” he said, withdrawing a small scroll.

  Devlin took the scroll with his left hand and broke the wax seal with his thumbnail. He knew at least one other person had read the message, since messages carried by bird were written in tiny letters on long strips of paper. Most likely Baron Martell and his scribe already knew whatever message King Olafur had sent to him. He hoped they could hold their tongues.

  “Chosen One. Empress Thania honors alliance. Your presence required in council. Return at once. Olafur, King of Jorsk.”

  Devlin read the message thrice before he allowed himself to believe. This was good news. Indeed, it was beyond all hope. If the Empress of Selvarat was prepared to send troops to help defend Jorsk, then the odds had just tipped in their favor. Such an alliance might well deter the invasion that Devlin had long feared. And if their enemies were foolish enough to attack anyway, Devlin would now have the strength to crush them.

  More than ever he was needed in Kingsholm. It was clear that events were unfolding swiftly, and he needed to be in a position to influence their outcome rather than trying to undo what others had already agreed to—though it boded well that King Olafur had urged his swift return. Perhaps the King had paid more heed to Devlin’s advice than he had realized at the time. Or perhaps the new alliance was just one of the changes that had been wrought in the politics of the Kingdom during the long months of Devlin’s absence.

  “Horses are saddled outside, and my troops and I are ready to escort you,” Commander Sundgren said.

  His eagerness was commendable, if misplaced. The weather had warmed, so the roads were no longer icy, but they were still slick from the morning’s rain, and the sun was rapidly setting. Traveling at night on such roads was the act of a fool.

  “Then unsaddle the horses and arrange with the inn-wife to find rooms for your troop. We’ll leave at first light.”

  “I’ll inform the others,” Saskia said. “We will be ready.”

  “You will stay here, with Didrik,” Devlin replied.

  “I am going with you.”

  Devlin turned to face her. “There is no need.”

  “If you leave anyone behind, let it be Stephen. He is your friend, but I have sworn to be your sword arm,” Saskia said, in the tongue of their people. “I promised Didrik that I would see you safely to your King.”

  He should have expected as much. Didrik was Devlin’s aide, sworn to obey his orders; but Didrik had made it clear that his first duty was to ensure Devlin’s safety. It seemed he had enlisted Saskia in his cause.

  Stephen was a friend, and a proven fighter who had shed blood on Devlin’s behalf; but he lacked the hard edges and killing instinct that Saskia possessed. She, like Didrik, was a warrior trained. If this was a trap, she might spot it even before he could, and he had no doubt that she would acquit herself well in any battle.

  “I accept your pledge,” he said in their own tongue.

  The commander frowned, clearly unhappy that they had chosen to exclude him from their debate.

  “Saskia will ride with us,” Devlin said, dropping back into the common tongue of Jorsk. Stephen would not be pleased to be left behind, but someone had to ensure that Didrik stayed until he was healed, even if that meant tying him to the bed.

  “Chosen One, there is no need for this foreigner to accompany us. My men and I have sworn to protect you with our lives,” Commander Sundgren said.

  “Saskia hails from the same city where I was born,” Devlin said, watching the commander flush red as he realized his mistake. “And she, too, has sworn an oath. Let us hope for an uneventful journey where neither of you is forced to put yourself to the test.”

  “Of course, my lord Chosen One.”

  Devlin sighed. It was going to be a long journey.

  They left early the next morning, just as the stars were beginning to fade. The roads were still wet from last night’s rain, but it had not been cold enough for the ground to freeze. Devlin took this as a sign that their journey would be swift.

  Indeed they set a fast pace, far faster than Devlin could have traveled on his own. When he had received the King’s message, Baron Martell had done more than simply send out riders to search for Devlin. He had also arranged to have post horses waiting at key towns along the route. Devlin and his escort changed mounts nearly every day. When there were no post horses available, Commander Sundgren requisitioned the best horses the villagers had to offer—whether they willed it or no.

  Such was within his rights as the baron’s man, and indeed as Chosen One Devlin could have done the same. But he was too much the peasant to be comfortable with such tactics. For every mount that was taken, Devlin made sure that the owner knew that he would be able to reclaim his horse at the next posting station, and gave him coin for his trouble.

  If he found Devlin’s concern unusual, Commander Sundgren said nothing. Indeed the commander hardly ever spoke to Devlin unless the needs of the journey dictated it. He treated Devlin with the utmost formality, always referring to him as “My lord,” or “Chosen One” despite Devlin’s protests. Such rigid propriety was suited for the royal court, but hardly proper for a small band of riders.

  The troops that accompanied them followed Sundgren’s lead. They did not speak to Devlin unless he asked them a question, and their replies were as brief as possible. They offered no opinions of their own, instead deferring to the wisdom of their commander. It was a far cry from what he was accustomed to. Even the Royal Army, with its officer corps drawn from the nobility, did not stand on ceremony to such an extent.

  Saskia took her role as his protector with due seriousness, and was seldom more than a few steps away from his side. Despite her actions, Commander Sundgren and his troops did their best to pretend that she was invisible. She was not called on to take a watch, nor did the commander ever ask her to ride ahead to ensure the road was clear. That suited Devlin well enough. Saskia, at least, he knew he could trust.

  But however strange he found Sundgren’s manner, he could not quarrel with the results. Their journey was swift, and without incident. Nine days after they had left Kronna’s Mill, Devlin saw the torchlit walls of Kingsholm looming ahead in the darkness.

  One of the troopers had ridden ahead, and she was waiting for them at the junction where the great road they traveled split into three. From here one could ride either to the east or the west, along the first of the great ring roads that encircled the city. If they rode straight on, it would take them through the outlying villages, then into the city through the southern gate. But Sundgren turned his horse to the left.

  “Wait,” Devlin ordered, drawing his horse to a halt.

  “My lord, I was instructed to bring you to the city by way of the western gate,” Sundgren explained.

  Devlin raised his eyebrows. This was the first he had heard of any such order.

  “And are there any other instructions that you have failed to share with me?” He kept his voice low, but he knew Sundgren heard the implied threat. Their journey so far had been without incident, but that did not mean that he trusted the commander. Anything could happen, and Devlin would not count himself safe until he stood within the palace walls.

  Commander Sundgren drew himself to even more rigid attention, if such a thing was possible. “It is past sundown, my lord,” he said. His face was expressionless as he pointed out the obvious. “The other gates will be barred shut at this hour, but the postern in the western gate is always open for messengers.”

  “Of course,” Devlin said. He should have realized that himself, but fatigue and his overriding need to reach Kingsholm had blinded him to the practicalities of entering a guarded city after dark. The southern gate was closer, but it would take time to unbar the wooden doors and raise the massive metal gate.

  Devlin nodded to the commander and kneed his horse to a walk. After a moment, the others fell in behind him.

  Two city
guards stood watch outside the West Gate, and though Devlin did not recognize them, they clearly knew who he was, for they began to open the postern gate as soon as they caught sight of the travelers.

  The gate was narrow and Devlin fought the urge to duck as he passed underneath the stone archway. On the other side he was greeted by a woman wearing the shoulder cord of a corporal. Her face was unfamiliar to him, but she was too old to be a new recruit. It seemed the City Guard had begun recruiting experienced armsmen, which boded well for the changes that had taken place in his absence.

  The corporal waited until the travelers had passed through the gate and the postern door was shut behind them. Then she saluted, saying, “Chosen One, I have been instructed to bring you and your companions directly to the palace. The King is expecting you.”

  “At this hour?” It was nearly midnight. Despite the urgent summons, the best he had hoped for was an audience with King Olafur in the morning.

  “I have my orders,” she said.

  Devlin drew himself erect in his saddle and rubbed his face, trying to shake off his exhaustion. His very bones ached, and he had scarcely slept in the past few days. It was no comfort to know that his companions were equally tired. Commander Sundgren and the rest could seek their beds, secure in the knowledge that they had done their duty. But Devlin would need all his wits about him, if he was to speak with the King.

  His right hand gripped the hilt of the Sword of Light, and he felt renewed strength at the tangible proof that he had succeeded in his quest. Devlin was the Chosen One. Mere tiredness would not be allowed to distract him.

  “Lead on,” he instructed.

  Four

  CAPTAIN DRAKKEN TUGGED AT A BLANKET FOLD that had somehow gotten trapped under her right side. Finally, she managed to straighten the blanket to her satisfaction, but the lumpiness of the mattress seemed to mock her efforts to become comfortable, and with a sigh she rolled over onto her back and opened her eyes.

  The banked fire in the grate provided only the faintest illumination, letting her glimpse the forms of dark objects against the slightly lighter walls. But she did not need to see. The room was as familiar to her as her own quarters. She could not count the number of nights that she had spent on that very same cot, in the small room tucked behind her offices in the Guard Hall. It was a place where she could rest when the demands of her schedule caught up with her—catching a few hours’ sleep after days of alternating twelve-hour watches with scant four-hour breaks. Since her youth she had been able to sleep whenever and wherever she found herself, but for once her long training had deserted her.

  It was a shocking lapse of discipline in one who had been a guard for over a quarter century. She was no raw recruit, too impatient to sleep on the first night before an engagement. She was Captain Morwenna Drakken, who had chased criminals, faced down assassins, and once challenged an angry mob of looters with only her partner to guard her back. And since becoming Captain, she had survived a hundred tricky council meetings and the worst that her political enemies could throw at her. She knew full well the value of having all her wits about her, and once Devlin arrived it was likely that there would be long days and nights ahead for them both.

  Despite that, she could not find it in herself to sleep. Five months ago, Devlin had left Kingsholm on his quest. He had carried all their hopes with them, but now, at long last, he was mere hours from the city. He should arrive sometime today, and if he indeed carried the Sword of Light, his presence would turn the city on its ear.

  She was too old to behave so foolishly, she thought, even as she rose from the cot. Crossing over to the fireplace, she stirred up the fire, adding a handful of kindling, then lit a thin scrap that she used to light the lamps.

  She opened the narrow wardrobe that held her spare uniform and dressed herself swiftly. Sleep was a lost cause, and if she were to be wakeful, she might as well do something, rather than lying in the dark fretting.

  It took only a few moments to make herself ready. Leaving the sleep chamber, she walked through her office, then into the corridor. As she descended the stairs to the ground floor, the watch bells sounded, indicating that it was two hours before dawn.

  The sentry outside the office saluted as Captain Drakken drew near, then opened the door. As she stepped inside, Lieutenant Ansgar quickly rose to his feet.

  If he was surprised to see his Captain appear in the middle of his shift, Ansgar gave no sign. “Captain, all is well in the city.”

  It was the routine report.

  “And the gate sentries?”

  “They have their orders. They are to report the Chosen One’s arrival at once and offer him any assistance he may require. I will brief the next shift of sentries personally, before they take their posts.”

  “Good.”

  She had visited the Royal Chapel yesterday at noon, where the glowing soul stone gave proof that Devlin was nearing the city. She had done what she could to prepare for his coming. The guards would inform her when he arrived, though it was likely that Devlin would seek out the King first, to report on the success or failure of his quest. Only then would he be free to seek out his friends.

  “I hope this return is calmer than the last,” Drakken mused.

  “Captain?” Lieutenant Ansgar’s voice rose in question.

  “The last time Devlin returned from a quest, his first act was to challenge Duke Gerhard to a duel. Let us hope this time he receives a warmer welcome.”

  “As you say.” Ansgar’s features were once again a blank mask.

  The man had no sense of humor, but that was hardly news. Ansgar was nearly an agemate, having joined the guard only two years after Drakken. A stolid, unimaginative man, his years of experience and faultless service had finally elevated him to the rank of sergeant.

  Left to her own, she would never have chosen him as one of her lieutenants, but then Hemfrid had been killed by his lover, a man who promptly took his own life. And King Olafur, who had never interfered in the Guard before, took the opportunity to select Ansgar for promotion. It was the King’s way of reminding her that she served at his pleasure and that he was the ultimate authority in Kingsholm.

  Drakken, though angry at the usurping of her traditional authority, had not argued against the King’s decision. Seemingly pleased by her acquiescence, the King had thrown her a bone, allowing her to recruit fifty new guards. Placing Ansgar in charge of their recruitment cost her nothing but pride.

  The newly expanded Guard was just one of the changes that Devlin would find when he returned to Kingsholm. She wondered what he would make of the presence of the Selvarat delegation and their new military alliance. Time alone would tell.

  Satisfied that she had done all she could for the moment, Captain Drakken left Lieutenant Ansgar and the nearly deserted Guard Hall and began an impromptu tour of inspection. As she emerged from the darkness, the sentries at the first guard tower challenged her, barring her path with lowered spears until she gave the night’s password. Only then did they allow her to step forward into the light. Such diligence pleased her, though she knew better than to praise the guards for merely doing their duty.

  She climbed the steps to the battlements and made the long circuit around the high walls that enclosed the palace compound. It was a good time for a surprise inspection, as the end of a long shift approached, when fatigue and boredom were likely to have taken their toll. But newcomers and veterans alike proved themselves alert and watchful. One guard greeted Drakken by name, rather than waiting for the challenge and response, thus earning herself a week’s stint of extra duties. But that was a minor failing, and overall Drakken was satisfied by what she found.

  The sun had risen by the time she had finished her inspection, and she witnessed the changing of the duty shifts. Then she went down to the courtyard and watched those who were taking part in the morning drills. She paid close attention to the newest recruits. One in particular showed great skill with the sword, while a deceptively slender man had proven
himself so apt at unarmed combat that Sergeant Lukas had already made him an instructor.

  She watched for over an hour, moving among the ranks of those practicing, paying close attention to the newest members of the Guard. It was not enough to put names with faces. She had to know their skills as well as their weaknesses, though the latter were fewer than she expected. Indeed, for the first time in living memory, most of the new recruits were not raw novices but experienced fighters. The King’s edict had drawn experienced provincial armsmen to the capital, as well as veterans who—for one reason or another—had given up their calling. Caravan guards; soldiers who had quit the army after their ten years only to find that the world outside was a hard place for someone without a trade; even a sailor who had lost his taste for the sea. Captain Drakken had been allowed to recruit from among them before the rest were evaluated by Marshal Olvarrson’s command, and those who measured up assigned to one of the newly formed squads sent up to reinforce the Nerikaat border.

  Recruiting experienced fighters meant that she did not have to waste months training these newcomers to tell one end of the sword from another. But fighting skills alone were not enough to make one a guard. Enforcing the law and keeping the peace in the city was a skill that only time could teach, and each newcomer was always paired with an experienced guard while on duty.

  Perhaps sensing her restless energy, Sergeant Lukas invited Captain Drakken to help demonstrate the correct techniques to use when a guard with a short sword found himself facing an opponent with a long sword. She stripped off her tunic, and after a few preliminary stretches to warm her muscles, accepted a short sword and faced off against Sergeant Henrik.

  Their first bout was done in slow time, each move executed to the beat of a drum that Lukas used to keep time. Years of training paid off as she and Henrik held each position for several heartbeats, while Lukas provided a running commentary. Only the most disciplined of fighters could demonstrate in this mode, for it required both extraordinary muscle strength and the control to execute each move precisely on the beat.