Fifteen

sword

AFTER A FITFUL NIGHTS REST, DEVLIN WAS roused shortly after dawn and brought before the Prince. His heart quickened as his escort stopped in front of the room where he had been tortured. Through the open door he could see that Prince Arnaud was already within, sipping from a mug of kava while a servingwoman cleared away the remnants of his breakfast. As she carried the tray past Devlin, the smell made his stomach rumble. He had scarcely eaten last night, and had been given no food this morning.

The Prince glanced at Devlin, then turned his attention back to the scroll that lay partially unrolled on the table before him. It was the opportunity Devlin had been looking for. If he could catch the Prince unaware, he could break his neck or choke him to death before the guards had a chance to intervene. The Prince had the build of a duelist, but Devlin had the muscles that came from a lifetime of hard labor. In close quarters, with the Prince apparently unarmed, Devlin would have the advantage.

And even if Devlin failed in his attack on the Prince, the odds were good that the Prince’s guards would be forced to kill Devlin to save the life of their liege. Either way, Devlin would win.

He knew his escort expected him to hesitate, so Devlin took three quick steps into the room. He gathered himself for a leap, only to find himself brought short as he was seized from behind by one of the guards.

“Careful, my friend,” Prince Arnaud said. “Remember their orders.”

Disappointment was bitter upon his tongue. If he had been a bit quicker . . .

Arnaud turned slowly to face him, seeming unconcerned by Devlin’s aborted lunge.

“I suppose this means that you are refusing my offer? You’d rather die than experience life as a free man again?”

“I will not agree to help you. I cannot,” Devlin said.

Prince Arnaud rose. “But you can. Or rather you did. You already invited me into your mind once, when you performed your quaint ritual. Then my power was limited by the distance between us. Now, if you reenact the ritual in my presence, I could enter and take apart the Geas spell strand by strand until you were once again free.”

Devlin shivered. The Geas spell was an unclean magic, but what Arnaud proposed was even worse. It was a sign of his perversion that he could speak so lightly of violating Devlin’s soul.

“My answer is unchanged. I will not help you build an army of spellbound warriors.”

He would not wish the hell of the Geas on any other living being. Nor could he give such a weapon into the hands of Jorsk’s enemies.

Prince Arnaud shook his head in mock sorrow. “I had hoped to spare you this,” he said.

He gestured to the men holding Devlin, who once again secured Devlin in the heavy wooden chair. They bound him tightly, as if to make up for their earlier misjudgment, and Devlin felt his hands begin to tingle from lack of blood.

Arnaud walked around Devlin, checking the security of his bonds, then stood once more in front of him. “Still, your resistance does provide one pleasure. I look forward to the day that my men are as loyal to me as you are to your treacherous King.”

“And I look forward to the day that Haakon claims your rotted soul,” Devlin replied.

The nearest guard scowled at Devlin, but Arnaud did not react. He dismissed the guards, who closed the door behind them.

Devlin deliberately relaxed his muscles and slowed his breathing, bracing himself for what was to come. Surely Arnaud already realized that he could not be broken by torture. Another round of torments would do nothing to change his mind.

Arnaud stretched his right hand out and placed the palm of his hand on the center of Devlin’s forehead. Devlin jerked his head to the side, but with his free hand Arnaud held his skull steady. His gaze caught and held Devlin’s, who stared back, locked in a contest of wills.

The third finger of Devlin’s left hand began to burn, and Devlin looked down to see that his ring was glowing. A warning that sorcery was being practiced. But if so, it was no magic that Devlin had ever seen before. There was no invocation of the Gods, no ritual offerings, none of the paraphernalia that Devlin associated with magic. Just the feeling of power in the air, his skin tingling as if he stood outside in a lightning storm.

Arnaud jerked Devlin’s hair, and his gaze once again rose to meet the Prince’s dark eyes. Arnaud stared at Devlin as if he could somehow see inside him, and Devlin fought the urge to close his own eyes in superstitious dread. The tingling of his hands had now spread to his legs as well, and he could feel the numbness rising through his body. He could hear no sound except the harsh rasping of his own breath, and even that grew fainter. He could no longer feel any part of his body. His head swam, and Devlin’s sight grew dim until he could see only blackness. All sound had fled. He screamed, or rather he tried to scream, but there was only silence.

With dawning horror, the full extent of his predicament sank in. Arnaud had sent him to hell.

 

The first thing he became aware of was the slow in-and-out motion of his breath. He focused on the sound, clinging to this proof that he still lived. Then sensation began to return to his limbs, a strange warmth that burned as it awakened nerves that had fallen silent. With agonizing slowness his body once more became his own, and at last he was able to open his eyes.

He raised his head, fighting weakened muscles that did not want to obey and the nausea that rose within him. Exhaustion warred with a lingering terror as he wondered just what changes Arnaud and his sorceries had wrought.

“Your mage is better than I thought,” Prince Arnaud observed. He was seated at the table, a large tome propped open by his elbow. The Prince appeared fatigued, and there were shadows under his eyes, but his gaze was still hungry as he stared at Devlin. He regarded Devlin the way another man might look at a rare jewel or a beautiful companion. As something that he had to possess at all costs.

Devlin licked his dry lips, but said nothing. He would not give Arnaud any information that could be used against him.

“Will you open your mind to me and rid yourself of this spell?” Arnaud asked.

“No,” Devlin said instinctively. Then he smiled grimly as he realized what he had done. He had not hesitated for even a moment in giving his response. It had not been Devlin who had spoken. It had been the Geas. For all Arnaud’s efforts, the Geas was still intact.

Arnaud nodded to himself, as if unsurprised by Devlin’s answer.

“The spell is well guarded, but I will destroy those protections in time,” he said. “Each day I will chip away at them until the day when your mind is as open to me as this book.”

Devlin shivered involuntarily, earning him another of Arnaud’s mocking smiles. Rising from his seat, the Prince spared Devlin a final glance before leaving the room.

A short time later two mercenaries came in and untied Devlin from the chair. Weakened by his confinement and whatever the Prince had done to him, Devlin’s legs buckled and refused to take his weight. His gaolers had to drag him back to the room that had become his cell, where they dumped him on his bed.

Earlier he had thought to feign weakness, to trick his captors into letting down their guard. But this was no act. His arm muscles quivered and his legs ached as if he had been at hard labor for days. Whatever magic Arnaud practiced, it seemed the price was paid for out of his victim’s flesh.

Devlin slept for a time, then roused himself long enough to eat when a meal was brought. Grimly he exercised each limb in turn, until his body was once more his own to command. His gaolers watched, but did not interfere. Only then did he allow himself to fall asleep for the night.

When he rose the next day, he expected to be summoned once again to face the Prince. But as the day advanced and no summons came, Devlin’s anxiety turned to frustration. He was no nearer to escaping now than he had been on the first day of his captivity. And every day that he remained Arnaud’s captive only brought him closer to the day that Arnaud would succeed in his goal.

Devlin hurled insults at his captors, but they refused to respond to his taunts. When the watch changed, he tried his tactics on the new guards but they proved equally unflappable. Veterans, by the look of them, and too afraid of Prince Arnaud to risk incurring his wrath.

The next day, the Prince sent for Devlin. This time he knew what to expect, but he still felt fear when the world disappeared and he fell into the black and soundless void. This time Arnaud allowed him to retain the sensations of the world around him, but that turned out to be no mercy. Within moments he felt the first wave of crushing power, squeezing the very bones within him. As the pressure grew he wondered dimly why he was still alive. He knew he could not endure a moment longer, and then the pressure increased.

It was past noon when Devlin opened his eyes. He did not know if his torment had indeed lasted hours or if it had taken him that long to recover.

It was small consolation to see that Arnaud, too, appeared worn, with grim lines around his mouth. This time the Prince did not boast of his powers, but merely ordered Devlin taken away.

 

The next morning Devlin’s body ached with exhaustion. He craved sleep, but instead forced himself to rise from his bed and eat the meal that his guards had brought. He needed to keep up his strength if he were to have any chance of escaping. Slowly, as the day wore on, the unnatural exhaustion left him. He felt almost himself when the Prince’s men finally came for him at dusk.

Once again he was taken to the Prince’s room, and bound to a chair, then left to await Arnaud’s arrival. Long minutes ticked by, ensuring that Devlin had plenty of time to think about what awaited him. But he was too disciplined to give in to his fears, and when the Prince arrived, he was able to greet him with at least the outward appearance of calm.

“Do you know what mind-sorcery is?” Prince Arnaud asked.

“It is an abomination.”

The Prince smiled, as if Devlin had just complimented him. He stepped closer, catching Devlin’s gaze in his. “It is a matter of will”—the Prince brushed his right hand over Devlin’s forehead—“and power,” he concluded, placing his right hand over Devlin’s heart.

Devlin flinched, certain that the Prince was about to invoke the mind spell that would plunge him into torment. But instead Prince Arnaud took a step backward.

“Mages rely upon tricks. Ancient runes, magical objects, garbled spells passed down for so long that their meaning has been lost. Most of them have no understanding of the words they chant or the true origins of the powers that they are invoking.”

“And yet these so-called incompetents invented a spell that you cannot break,” Devlin said.

“No, the Geas spell was crafted by a true mind-sorcerer. One who understood how to focus will and intent, and distilled that knowledge into a ritual even an unranked mage could invoke.”

Devlin shrugged. He did not care how the spell had been crafted. What did it matter if it were mind-sorcery or mere magery? However the Geas spell had been designed, it worked. Far too well, sometimes.

“You know that the spell draws its power from your own strength? That the chains that bind you are forged by your own will?”

Devlin kept silent. Even if he wished to cooperate, there was nothing that he could reveal. Master Dreng himself did not understand the workings of the Geas, though he had memorized it well enough to cast it.

He wondered how long it would take Arnaud to realize that he should have kidnapped Master Dreng instead. If the Prince had access to the text of the spell, along with whatever records the mage’s predecessors had left behind, he might well be able to re-create the spell. With or without Devlin’s help.

It was chilling to think that all of his efforts might be for naught. But there was no time for despair, as the Prince placed his right hand on top of Devlin’s head. Devlin closed his eyes, but the Prince was prepared for this trick, and he gouged his thumb into the corner of Devlin’s left eye socket. Instinctively, Devlin’s eyes flew open, and his gaze was caught and held by the Prince’s glittering gaze.

Unlike the previous interrogation, he did not sink into unconsciousness. Instead, he felt a steadily growing pressure, battering away at his resolve. I will not give in, Devlin thought. I am the Chosen One and I surrender to no man. He clung to these thoughts, but the pressure increased, and he felt his concentration slipping.

Cold blue eyes stared into his own, daring him with their defiance, even as their owner trembled from the force of the mind battle. He admired the prisoner’s courage, even as he regretted the necessity of destroying such a fine weapon. But regrets had no place on the path to power, so he cleared his mind, and focused his will.

Then the world tilted, and he was staring back into the Prince’s dark eyes. Devlin shuddered as he realized that he had briefly shared the Prince’s thoughts. In his horror he lost his concentration, and the Prince swiftly pressed home his advantage.

Unbidden, the image of Devlin’s Choosing Ceremony came to mind, and once again he heard Brother Arni invoking the blessing of the Gods upon the one who would be their champion.

Devlin held a knife against his arm, ready to embrace his death, only to be thwarted by the power of the Geas.

King Olafur appeared, asking Devlin to be his general and to lead the fight against their enemies.

Then he was in the distant past, a young apprentice as he first beheld the sword that would shape his future.

He struggled to regain his focus and close off his mind, but the Prince ruthlessly brushed aside his feeble efforts. Faster and faster the visions came, images of his past flickered by, some too swiftly to discern. He ceased trying to control the flood of thoughts, and new faces began to appear, intermixed with his own memories. A regal woman wearing a triple crown, who stirred in him feelings of loathing. An old man, coughing up blood. A fine-boned racing horse, grazing in a paddock. A young peasant boy, screaming as he was dragged away by his elders.

A cup of dark red wine, overturned on an oaken table.

He did not know what the images meant. He could no longer tell which memories were his and which were Arnaud’s. Where his mind began and ended. At last he gave himself up to the pull of the darkness. When he awoke, the Prince was gone.

 

Devlin’s days fell into a pattern. One day would pass or two, while he regained his strength under the watchful eyes of his guards. And then the Prince would summon him and subject him to another sorcerous attack.

Each time Devlin resisted as long as he could, but in the end, the Prince always succeeded in prying a piece of his mind open. But for all his searching Arnaud did not find what he was seeking. Devlin’s will remained unbroken, and it pleased him to witness Arnaud’s steadily growing fury.

The brutal invasions of Devlin’s mind had one strange benefit. Each time Arnaud probed Devlin’s memories, a portion of his own thoughts and memories leaked across the linkage. Usually Devlin was in too much agony to take conscious advantage of the connection; but long after his interrogation sessions had ended, he would turn over the hard-won scraps of knowledge in his mind.

Arnaud was worried. Time was his enemy, for midsummer approached and he had yet to create his army of spellbound soldiers. The people of Jorsk had seemingly accepted their so-called protectors, but Arnaud was convinced that it was only a matter of time before a leader arose who could unite them in rebellion.

The Selvarat troops were stretched thin, which explained the presence of the mercenaries under Arnaud’s banner. Rather than sending for reinforcements, Arnaud had gambled that he could make each of his soldiers do the work of ten, strengthened by the relentless drive of the Geas spell.

It was a strangely complicated plan. At first he’d wondered why Arnaud hadn’t summoned reinforcements. Selvarat was a mighty empire, and with no one to oppose their landings they could easily bring in enough troops to crush any opposition.

Unless there was some reason that the troops were not available. Was there civil unrest in Selvarat? Had Olafur and the rest fallen for an empty bluff that the Selvarats had no means to back up?

Was there some reason why Prince Arnaud did not want more Selvarat troops under his command? Was he concealing the weakness of his position from his enemies? Or from his own countrymen? What had brought the imperial consort here to Jorsk in the first place? Surely he had power enough in Selvarat, as well as plenty of opportunity to indulge his perversions.

Or did his ambition stretch further? Did he seek to be ruler in truth rather than merely a consort to power? On the day that Thania died, Arnaud would be expected to go into seclusion, pushed aside as Thania’s daughter by her first husband inherited the throne.

Knowing Arnaud as he did, Devlin could not imagine him stepping aside for anyone. Instead, the Prince might be using the Selvarat occupation of Jorsk to strengthen his political position at home.

Or he could have decided to carve out his own kingdom. That would explain the presence of the mercenaries, whose only loyalty would be to their paymaster. And it would explain Arnaud’s obsession with crafting an army that would be unable to disobey him.

It was an interesting theory. If there was even the slightest truth to Devlin’s speculations, then it might well be possible to drive a wedge between the Selvarat regulars and the mercenary auxiliaries. That is if anyone would believe Devlin.

But first he had to make his escape.