Devlin's Honor Read online

  “If I had not volunteered, King Olafur would have ordered me to go after it. He has been looking for any excuse to send me away. You know how much he loathes conflict. He is tired of the bickering of the King’s Council, tired of my constantly urging him to decisive action. With me gone, he can follow his own inclinations, no matter that they may lead him to his doom.”

  “You may have given up, but I will not. We will go to the King and convince him that this is madness. The sword has been lost these fifty years; there is no reason to look for it now. You could spend the rest of your life hunting it.”

  Devlin hesitated, wondering how much to tell her, then decided she deserved to know the truth. Solveig was a staunch ally whose advice had served him well in the murky realm of court politics. She needed to know that this was not some foolish whim.

  “If the sword were truly lost, then I would indeed stay here and refuse even the King’s orders to leave. But the sword is not lost. I have seen it, though I did not know what it was at the time. Only yourself, Captain Drakken, Stephen, and Didrik know this truth. The rest believe that I am off on a fool’s errand, which may be our only protection, for my enemies dare not let me succeed.”

  “You have seen the sword? How can that be?”

  “When I was learning my craft as a smith, I had the chance to study a sword that had been wrought with great cunning. I spent hours studying the design, and marveling at the composition of the steel. I did not know that it was the Sword of Light, of course. Neither did the man who owned it. All he knew was that this was the sword that had killed his brother, and yet it was too beautiful for him to destroy.” Devlin swallowed against the bitterness that rose up in his throat. “I had long forgotten the sword until Captain Drakken showed me the portrait of Donalt the Wise. And from that moment, I have been fighting the Geas that urges me to seek out the sword that belongs to the Chosen One. So you see, it does not matter what you say, or the council, or even the King. I have fought off its bidding for two days, but I can delay no longer. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

  Solveig’s pale blue eyes widened in comprehension, and he turned his head away, unable to face the pity he saw there.

  “If you are determined to go, you must take great care. Stephen told me he is to accompany you, and Lieutenant Didrik, but he would not say anything else about the arrangements. How large is your escort?”

  “None. There will be enough difficulty over my return as it is. I do not need to add to that by bringing along a company of soldiers.”

  Difficulty was a mild word for his troubles. Devlin had left Duncaer under a cloud of suspicion so black that even his friends and kinfolk had turned their faces from him. Now he was returning, having sworn an oath to protect the very Kingdom that had conquered his people. They would call him traitor and kinslayer. And these were the very folk he must convince to turn over the Sword of Light.

  “But you must take an escort. Here in the city the guards can protect you. But once on the road, there are many dangers to fear. Once you are dead, what does it matter if it was the work of common bandits or hired assassins? The result is the same and we cannot afford to lose you.”

  He knew her true concern was not for his safety but for that of her youngest sibling, and offered what assurance he could. “If we are attacked, I will do my best to protect Stephen. But I can make no promises. Not for his safety, nor for my own.”

  He was silent as he considered yet again whether he should refuse to let Stephen accompany him on this trip. For all his courage, Stephen was a minstrel, not a warrior. And he was young both in years and in experience, possessing an innocence that Devlin himself had lost years ago. But Stephen was also a friend, and had proven himself stubborn. If he forbid Stephen to go with him, no doubt the minstrel would simply follow on his own.

  “A small party can elude ambush far better than a large one,” Devlin said. “And there may not be any trouble. My enemies have already accomplished their aim by sending me on this quest. It will take nearly two months to reach Duncaer, and once there I must find the sword. The man who owned it has since died, and the sword may have changed hands many times since. I will be lucky to make it back in time for the spring council.”

  “And without your prodding, the council will revert to their old habits. They will bicker among themselves and take no action to shore up the Kingdom’s defenses. Your influence will wane as your allies find themselves outnumbered and outvoted.”

  His enemies did not need to kill Devlin. Simply getting him out of the capital would be enough to serve their ends. Devlin’s power and influence were newly acquired, and could be lost just as easily as they had been gained. By the time he returned, no doubt King Olafur would have found another chief advisor, and Devlin would once again be relegated to the position of useless spectator.

  “The King has agreed that Lord Rikard may hold my seat on the council, but he is not allowed a vote,” Devlin said. Even this concession had taken him hours to achieve. Lord Rikard had not been his first choice, but the King had flatly refused to consider Solveig. True she was the heir to a Baron, but many considered that her family already had too much influence over court politics through their friendship with Devlin.

  “Rikard is a good man, but his hot temper may do more harm than good,” Solveig observed.

  “Rikard has promised to restrain himself.” As a border noble himself, his insights would balance those of the more conservative members. Still, it was an imperfect solution at best. Rikard would have only his eloquence to sway the council. And a great deal could happen in four months time.

  “You should delay this. Find some way to stay until springtime, until we are certain that the threat of invasion is gone. Then it would be safe for you to travel, and in fair weather your journey would be much faster,” Solveig said. “What of Master Dreng? Can he not ease the Geas spell so you can remain?”

  “The spell is beyond his talents,” Devlin said.

  Ever since the fateful duel, Master Dreng had been experimenting on ways to lift the Geas that bound Devlin’s will. He had gone so far as to ensorcel dogs with a lesser version of the spell, then try his skills at breaking it. Three dogs had died in his tests, and when Devlin had learned of this, he had forbidden any more experiments. The dumb beasts did not deserve such a fate. No creature did.

  “The spell may be beyond his ken, but perhaps someone schooled in a different form of magic may hold the key to understanding this spell. My mother has family in Selvarat, and could find a trustworthy sorcerer.”

  “No,” Devlin said, instinctively rejecting the offer. It was enough that his friends knew of the Geas spell, and how it bound him like a witless slave. He did not need to share his shame with strangers.

  “No, I thank you, but I do not need their help,” Devlin repeated. “I will endure as I must, as those before me have done.”

  The wind strengthened, bringing with it the first drops of rain. Fat drops darkened the stone railing, and he could see beads of moisture on the fur of Solveig’s cloak.

  “It is late and there is nothing more to be said here. Go to Stephen, he would welcome your company,” Devlin said.

  Solveig nodded, then stepped forward and embraced him as if he were one of her brothers. He returned her embrace awkwardly. “I wish you safe journey and a swift return,” she said.

  Then she released him and, turning, made her way across the narrow walkway to the guard tower. He watched as she departed, then he began to walk in the opposite direction. He greeted each of the guards on sentry by name, urging them to remain alert. It was foolish, he supposed, but he needed one last inspection, to reassure himself that the palace was as safe as he could make it. When he had completed the circuit round the battlements, he could delay no longer, and reluctantly he went inside, to face those that waited for him within.

  As he turned down the corridor that led to his quarters, Devlin was surprised to see a guard standing watch outside his door. As he drew near, he recognized Signy, o
ne of those who had journeyed with him to Korinth that spring. She saluted, thumping her shoulder with her right hand. “Chosen One,” she said, nodding in respect.

  He noticed that she wore the short sword of one on city patrol instead of the spear that was used for strictly ceremonial duties.

  “Signy. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Lieutenant Didrik assigned me to this post, with orders to keep the corridor free from distractions,” she replied.

  “And have there been many of these distractions?”

  “A few,” she answered, a faint grin ghosting across her features. “It took them a bit to realize that I was serious, but the sword helped.”

  Devlin chuckled, wishing that he had been there. No doubt the courtiers and their lackeys had been surprised by her enthusiasm for carrying out her orders. In many ways the guards considered him one of their own, and they protected him zealously. He was grateful that her presence had spared him from having to waste these last few hours dealing with fools who would merely irritate him with their demands.

  “Lieutenant Didrik is within,” she added.

  “See that we are not disturbed.”

  “As you command,” she said, then opened the door for him.

  Devlin entered the outer chamber and closed the door behind him.

  Didrik was sitting at the table, his pen scratching across parchment. There was a stack of neatly folded missives before him and a jumble of scrolls piled in a basket to the side. “I was beginning to think you had left on your own,” he said. His tone was light but his eyes betrayed his worry.

  “I needed time to think,” Devlin said, stripping off his gloves, then unfastening his rain-sodden cloak. He hung the cloak next to the fire and placed the leather gloves on specially designed hooks so they would dry out before the morning. He stood in front of the fire, rubbing his hands together, watching as the pale flesh grew pink once more and feeling the chill begin to leave his bones.

  He indulged himself for a moment, savoring the warmth, and turned to face his aide.

  “The sentry was a good idea.”

  “There have been messengers here all afternoon,” Didrik said, waving his right hand at the wicker basket, which held at least two dozen ribbon-bound scrolls.

  “Anything of importance?”

  Didrik shook his head. “I haven’t had time to read them all, but I can guess what they say. They profess good wishes for your journey and offer useless advice. Your allies hope you return swiftly and in triumph. Your enemies are pleased to see you go, and urge you to great diligence in your search, meaning that they hope you will stay away and never return. The fence sitters send their wishes for your success, so they will be remembered as your friends should you actually succeed.”

  “Dispose of them as you see fit,” Devlin said. He felt no urge to read the letters himself. After four months as Devlin’s personal aide, Didrik had developed an instinctive sense about what was important and what was not.

  Devlin glanced through the open door that led to his sleeping chamber. At the foot of his bed there were two full saddlebags, and a third one lay open on top of the banded wooden trunk, waiting for him to add any last-minute items.

  “Are all the arrangements made?” he asked.

  “Yes. A coach with the royal crest and a baggage cart will depart at the third hour past dawn, and leave the city through the south gate. There will be an escort of six riders from the Royal Army, who will accompany the coach as far as Denvir.”

  “And the others? The horses are at the stable behind the Singing Fish?”

  “Yes. Stephen will meet us there at the first hour before sunrise.”

  “Good.” The carriage was a ruse, meant to deceive anyone who might be watching and planning a potential ambush. While all eyes were on the palace, Devlin and his friends would already have left the city through the eastern gate. They would travel lightly, forgoing their uniforms to pass as simple travelers. Hopefully this would throw any would-be ambushers off their trail.

  It was a child’s trick, yet that was the very virtue of the plan. With luck, no one would suspect him of trying such an obvious ploy. Every league that they traveled undetected increased the difficulties that their enemies would have in picking up their trail. At worst they would gain several hours head start. At best, they might lose their shadowers altogether.

  Unless his enemies had decided there was no reason to shadow him. Devlin was doing exactly as they wished, after all. They might well be content simply to see him leave.

  Didrik finished writing and put his pen in the metal holder before slipping the paper from the wooden frame. Then he placed this final sheet on top of the stack of similar papers to his left.

  “You need to sign these orders,” he said.

  Devlin bit back a sigh. Before becoming a general, he had naively imagined that the head of the Royal Army spent his days preparing for combat and inspecting fortifications. But in his brief tenure he had come to realize that paperwork was the bane of the army’s existence, and all of it seemed to end up on his desk. In many ways, he was nothing more than a glorified clerk.

  He took his own seat across the table, and Didrik slid the stack of papers to him. Picking up the pen with his left hand, he dipped it in the inkwell and positioned it carefully between the two good fingers of his crippled right hand. He swiftly scanned the text before scrawling his name across the bottom. He passed the signed document back to Didrik, who folded it and sealed it with the crest that proclaimed it came from the General of the Royal Army.

  There were a dozen orders in all, dealing with everything from ordering supplies for the western garrison to a proclamation encouraging young men and women to enlist in the Royal Army, to serve their country in this time of unrest.

  “There is one more,” Didrik said, holding up a sheet he had set aside. “Have you decided on naming Major Mikkelson as acting Marshal?”

  Devlin shook his head. “I wish I could, but you were right. He is too new to his rank, and the other commanders will not follow a man who was a mere Ensign only six months before.”

  The officer corps of the Royal Army had long been a place of political patronage, where family connections and noble ancestors were far more important to advancement than military skill. Devlin was trying to change that, but there was a limit to how swiftly he could shake up the army and still expect it to follow him.

  “And I need Mikkelson in Korinth. I am convinced that the invasion this summer was but a test of our readiness. There were too few troops for them seriously to expect to succeed. If a real attack is to occur, it will be in the spring. The Major will have his hands full this winter drilling his soldiers and strengthening the coastal defenses.”

  “Then who shall it be?”

  “Garrison Commander Erild Olvarrson. He has the seniority, and seventeen generations of nobility behind him. The other commanders will follow his lead.”

  If Erild Olvarrson had a fault, it was his complete lack of initiative. But for that reason he could be counted on to preserve the status quo. He would make no bold moves to strengthen the Kingdom’s defenses, but neither would he meddle with the reforms that Devlin had already put in place.

  “And his wife is from Ringstadt, so if the invasion comes there, hopefully he will be moved to defend her home and will release the troops from their garrisons,” Didrik added.

  “There is that,” Devlin said. “Though with luck we will be back before the spring.”

  He had to believe that, for the alternative was to believe that he was deserting the people he had sworn to protect, leaving them undefended in their time of peril. He vowed that he would find the damn sword and return in time to lead the defense of Jorsk against any that dared to disturb the peace.

  Devlin took the order and filled in Erild Olvarrson’s name at the top, designating him as acting head of the Royal Army in Devlin’s absence. Then he signed the order, folded it in thirds, and stamped it with the wax seal.

  “Th
ere,” he said. “Anything not done is now Olvarrson’s headache, not ours.”

  “Do you need me for anything else?”

  “No, you should go now. You have your own preparations to make and good-byes to say.”

  Didrik rose. “I have left orders with the night sentry to wake us at the second hour before dawn,” he said.

  “I will see you then,” Devlin said.

  After Didrik left, Devlin ate a solitary dinner, his thoughts already far from this place. Now that the moment had come, he was impatient to leave. A chamberman cleared away the remnants of the meal, leaving behind a bottle of a rare Myrkan wine, a gift from Lord Rikard. Devlin ignored the wine and instead checked his baggage one last time, to ensure that he had everything he would need for the journey.

  He knew his caution was excessive. After all, he was no longer a poor traveler. He had a generous purse for expenses, and as the Chosen One he could requisition whatever he needed. The Royal treasury would be duty-bound to reimburse those who had the dubious honor to receive his requests. But still old habits died hard, and where possible he preferred to be self-sufficient rather than depend on others.

  Assured that everything was as it should be, Devlin turned at last to his weapons. He took the great axe from its leather case and inspected it. True to its forging, he found the edge sharp and the metal free from corrosion, so he merely oiled the steel before returning it to the case.

  His throwing knives were next, and though he had cleaned them only a week before after practicing, he still inspected each blade before replacing it in the leather roll. The two forearm sheaths were another matter. He put one on his wardrobe, to be donned in the morning. But as to the other … He turned it over in his hand, wondering if he was deluding himself. He had lost none of his skill with his left hand, but his crippled right hand no longer threw truly. He might never regain the skill in that arm, and it was foolish to drag along something that he did not need. He knew that, and yet he found himself tucking the second sheath in his open saddlebag.