“Think of me as a mercenary,” Devlin said.
“You must be the best-paid mercenary in history,” the Count said, with a faint smile.
“Not yet. But I will be,” Devlin added. Though the true payment he sought was not one the Count was likely to understand. And even if he tried to explain, he doubted he would be believed. How could anyone understand that the true reward he sought was not coin, but his own death? Only someone who had suffered as Devlin had would understand the impulse that drove him to seek his own destruction.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” Devlin said. “But I have taken much of your time, so I will leave you now, to your other guests.”
“The thanks is mine,” Count Magaharan said. “I hope we can speak again someday.”
“That is in the hands of the Gods,” Devlin replied. And should Lord Haakon finally relent and accept Devlin’s sacrifice, they would not meet again until Count Magaharan made his own journey to the Dread Lord’s realm.
Three days after the races, Devlin received an urgent summons to attend the King’s Council. The royal messenger made it clear that the summons brooked no delay, and Devlin speculated as to the cause as he accompanied the messenger through the palace. The council had been meeting daily now that the court was officially open, and yet his presence had never been requested before.
Could it be that they had an errand for him? An enemy that he could face? Any excuse to leave this strange and inhospitable place would be welcome.
Two guards in dress livery flanked the doors to the council chamber. Recognizing the Chosen One, or perhaps the authority of the royal messenger, they uncrossed their spears and opened the doors, bowing low as Devlin passed.
Devlin entered the room. The doors swung shut behind him.
“At last,” a voice muttered, but Devlin did not know who had uttered the words.
His attention was fixed on King Olafur, who sat at the head of an oval table of richly polished heartwood. He had seen the King several times in the past weeks. But the King had barely acknowledged his existence. Until now. And as he had on their first meeting, Devlin found himself oddly disappointed by this man whom he had sworn to protect with his life. King Olafur was a man of average stature, with thinning blond hair and lines of perpetual worry on his face. Save for the golden circle on his brow he might have been any merchant or small farmer, facing hard times.
To the King’s left sat Duke Gerhard, the King’s Champion. To his right sat Countess Ingeleth, who was first among the King’s councilors. Along the table sat a dozen other councilors and officials. He recognized the Royal Steward, and the gossipy Lord Baldur, whom he had overheard at the duel.
Captain Drakken was not there, but a lieutenant in the uniform of the Guard sat midway down the table.
The foot of the table held an empty chair.
Devlin took a step, then hesitated, realizing he did not know the courtesy and custom of this situation. Should he greet the King? Should he wait for the King to greet him? Was he expected to bow or to kneel in the fashion of the foreign courtiers?
The King gestured, a languid wave of one hand, and Devlin took this as a sign that he was to take a seat. He did so, with a slight nod of his head.
From the sour expression on Countess Ingeleth’s face, he knew he had broken at least one of the rules of propriety. So be it. They had not sought him out for his advice on manners.
“Your Majesty summoned me?” he prompted.
King Olafur sighed, and rubbed his chin in thought.
“There is no need for this,” an elderly councilor muttered.
Countess Ingeleth glared at the councilor, then turned her attention to Devlin.
“The King has received a petition from Greenhalt on Long Lake. Greenhalt is one of several small villages along the lake that make their living from fishing. It seems that something or someone is attacking the fisherfolk and devouring the fish in the lake. The villagers sent to Lord Brynjolf, the Baron of Esker, but he was unable to aid them, and so they have petitioned the King.” Her tone was even, as if she were describing a minor nuisance.
“I tell you, it is all a ploy by that crafty Brynjolf. He’s already behind in his taxes, and is hoping to use this as an excuse to avoid paying this year’s harvest tax,” the Royal Steward said. “This is a fool’s errand. There is no creature. There is nothing wrong except lazy villagers and a feckless lord.”
Well at least his opinion on the matter was clear.
“I don’t understand why Lord Brynjolf doesn’t send his own armsmen to take care of this, rather than come begging to the King,” Lord Baldur said. “Surely even a petty lord can dispose of such a trifling disturbance.”
The Guard lieutenant cleared his throat. “May I remind the councilor that Lord Brynjolf has already sent over half his armsmen to Ringstad, to help them patrol the border? The armsmen he has left are scarce enough to secure his own Barony.”
“Indeed,” Duke Gerhard said, with a touch of condescension, “there has been much restlessness along the borders. It is why I fear committing my own troops. Although, of course, should the King wish it, I would obey your royal command.”
“No, no,” the King said swiftly. “We need the Royal Army in garrison, ready for when our true foe shows his face. We cannot have them haring off all over the country. This creature could be an attempt to dilute our forces and distract us from the real danger.”
Devlin leaned back in his chair, getting a grim pleasure as he observed the interplay of the court. He was learning more about allegiances in a few minutes than he had in the past fortnight. The councilors seemed stubbornly prepared to argue their positions, never mind that all present, including himself, knew what the answer would be.
“The Guard stands at your service,” the lieutenant said. “I know Captain Drakken would approve of a plan to send a small party to investigate the problem, and to report their findings to the council.”
Devlin did not like the sound of that. He did not want an escort. He did not want companionship of any sort. The guards would slow him down, and worse yet, their help might improve the chances of his survival.
“So now we have guards to spare? Only the other day, your Captain Drakken was in here arguing that we needed to fund more guards to keep the city secure. She will not thank you for making her look foolish,” the Royal Steward said.
The lieutenant flushed.
“There is only the one monster in that one lake?” asked the woman on his left. “And no one has reported that it flies or hops on land?”
“It seems confined to the lake. So far,” Countess Ingeleth said cautiously.
“Well then it is simple,” the woman declared. “Instruct Lord Brynjolf to find other lands for his people, and if the creature wants that lake, leave him to it.”
Devlin turned to stare at the woman. How could she be so callous? Didn’t she realize what it would mean to these simple folk to give up their lands and their livelihoods? To lose the place where they had been born, where generations before them had lived and died? They would lose everything and be forced to become beggars, dependent on the charity of their lord and their countrymen. And from what he had seen, the charity of Jorskians would make cold comfort indeed.
“Enough,” he said, rising to his feet. “There is no need to wrap it up in fine linen. We all know why I am here, and why the good steward there parted with ten golden disks in the King’s name. If there is an evil creature in that lake, then it is the task of the Chosen One to destroy it.”
As he said the words, he could feel the faint tickle of the Geas as its power stirred within his soul. He had committed himself to this quest, and unless a greater danger arose, nothing, save his own death, could stop him from seeking out the mystery of the lake creature.
“I am not certain this is wise—” the King began.
“I am.” Devlin said shortly, ignoring the gasps that arose at his impertinence in interrupting the King.
His eyes swept the room, memorizing their expressions. Lady Ingeleth was calm, Lord Baldur appeared amused, and Duke Gerhard’s face wore a subtle sneer. Only the face of the Guard lieutenant held any trace of sympathy—or understanding of what Devlin had committed himself to do.
“King Olafur. Gentle nobles. Is there anything more you can tell me about this creature?”
“I will send the reports to your chambers,” Lady Ingeleth said.
“I thank you for your courtesy,” he said. “And now I will away, to begin preparations. By your leave, Your Majesty.”
He left the room without waiting for the King’s response. He knew if he stayed he would be unable to hold his tongue, and would give vent to the contempt he felt for councilors who cared so little about the people they served. With the luck of the Gods this errand would be his last, and he would be free of these councilors and their ilk forever.
Lady Ingeleth had been as good as her word. She had sent along copies of the politely worded request from Lord Brynjolf, the Baron of Esker, and the less polished but more heartfelt pleas of the fisherfolk. The fisherfolk described the creature as a giant skrimsal, which seemed to be their name for a water serpent. Along with the petitions was a map of Esker, showing the location of Long Lake, with a circle marking the location of Greenhalt.
Devlin studied the documents with care, but learned little more than he had from the council session. The villagers were afraid. Their lord was concerned, but unable to help them.
The map proved more helpful. It showed that Esker lay to the northwest. He would have to travel along the Kalla River, through the province of Kalveland, and then cross another river before he reached Esker. His finger traced the route. Kingsholm was as far north as he had ever ventured, but the route did not look too hard. The country he would travel through was hilly, but that would be no challenge to one raised in the mountains of Duncaer.
Opening the cedar chest, he withdrew the saddlebags he had acquired on his last journey and placed them on the bed. Swiftly he began to pack. A spare uniform, two shirts, a set of smallclothes and several pairs of socks went into one saddlebag. In there, too, went spare bolts for the transverse bow, and a purse filled with the King’s coins.
Into the other saddlebag went his cooking pot, utensils, and a firestone. He would draw upon supplies from the Guard’s stores before he left.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” he called.
The door opened, revealing the minstrel Stephen.
“Chosen One, I—” he began.
“I have no time for idle chatter,” Devlin said. “You had best be on your way.”
The minstrel flushed, but he raised his chin and came into the room. “I heard that you are leaving for Esker.”
“You hear well.”
“Then you will need a guide and companion. I am here to offer my services.”
“I need no companion,” Devlin said firmly. He did not need this young man, with his constant questions and absurd belief that the Chosen One was a mythic being. Especially when Devlin considered that anything he said or did was likely to prove fodder for the minstrel’s songs. “If I need a guide, I will hire one when I reach Esker.”
“But there is no need for that. I am of Esker. I know the roads and I know the people. With me as your guide, your journey will be faster.”
The minstrel’s words held a certain logic, but Devlin was not convinced. The advantages of the minstrel’s presence were outweighed by the fear of having another person close to him for any length of time. Devlin had too many secrets to keep. He could not afford to get close to anyone, or to let anyone get close to him.
He opened his mouth to refuse, but instead heard himself say, “I accept your offer.”
He closed his mouth with a snap. He could feel the Geas, asleep no longer. Its power had stirred to life once he had committed himself to this quest, and now it would not let him act to serve his own comfort and peace of mind. The Geas recognized only one priority, and that was the welfare of the Kingdom.
“You will not regret this,” Stephen said, taking Devlin’s hand and wringing it enthusiastically.
He was regretting it already. But he refused to explain to the minstrel that the Geas had been the one to accept him, not Devlin the man. There was no reason to reveal the extent of his weakness to another.
“You will need a horse,” he said, instead.
Stephen nodded. “I had thought of that. I purchased a mount this afternoon, with what was left of Master Dreng’s silver.”
Had it ever occurred to the minstrel that Devlin might refuse? What had he been planning on doing then? Attempting to follow Devlin on his own? Skulking along the trail like a gangly wraith, waiting till Devlin changed his mind?
Had Devlin ever been that young or that hopeful? He tried, but could not remember such a time. There were less than ten years in age between himself and young Stephen, but that was as the suns counted. In terms of experience, Devlin was a thousand years older than the minstrel was, or ever would be.
“I will leave at first light. Meet me in the courtyard then, or I will set off on my own.”
“I will be there,” Stephen said, as he began backing out of the room. “And I thank you.”
“You will not thank me when this is over,” Devlin warned, but the minstrel had already disappeared.