On the high seas, a man didnât always have time to consult his charts or the opinions of his officers before giving his orders. A sudden squall, the sound of a dromonâs drums carried on the wind, or any of a dozen âunexpectedâ things could force a captain to react based on everything heâd seen before, and trusting that the disasters of yesterday had given him a way to survive the crisis of the moment.
Devlin didnât know what was happening in the common room of the Gilded Horns, but he knew enough to recognize a trap when heâd blundered into one, and his body started moving even as his mind struggled to catch up. His fighting knife appeared in his hand almost without thought while he threw his other arm out to bar the simple servants behind him from coming any closer to the dangerous inquisitors at the far side of the room.
"Isabell, how could you?" Devlin spat, glowering at the woman who had delivered them into the waiting arms of Lady Jocelynnâs greatest enemies.
Suddenly, pieces began falling into place in Devlinâs mind. Isabellâs strangely youthful appearance combined with the âyouthfulâ looking knight in the antiquated tunic, plus the Inquisitor with the old-fashioned robes that looked like a relic of a bygone era...
Devlin wasnât a superstitious man, but the people of Blackwell had always been wary of the Church, particularly those like Devlin who could trace their origins all the way back to the First Crew. Suddenly, the folk tales that his great-grandfather had told a much younger Devlin, about the strange powers of the Church and the âbargainsâ they struck, sounded much, much more plausible than heâd ever imagined.
He didnât know how the Inquisition had done what they did, or what motive they might have in all this, but it was increasingly clear to Devlin that Isabell had sold them out in exchange for a miracle of youth that no one else could bestow...
"Get back," Sir Elgon shouted at the household staff as he strode forward. The sound of his sword whispering against the leather of his sheath was all the order the knights of Blackwell needed to follow his lead, and Sir Beathan and his templars werenât far behind, forming a wall of strong men with swords drawn between the strangers in the common room and the people they were determined to protect.
"Wait," Isabell said, stepping toward Devlin with her arms raised, only to stop in her tracks when he held up his long, curved knife between them. "I think thereâs been a misunderstanding, Captain..."
"Clearly," Devlin spat. "Sir Beathan, youâre with us?" Devlin asked, glancing at the young templar who had already drawn his sword to take a stand against the Inquisitors.
"One ship, one crew," the Templar answered firmly. "Give the word, and Iâll lead the charge," he said, though the way his hands shifted on the hilt of his mirror-polished longsword made it clear to the veterans in the room that his conviction was a brittle, untested thing.
"Oh now youâre just being silly," Isabell snapped in obvious irritation as she saw where the men of Blackwell were directing their aggression. "Diarmuid, can you do something about this? Ignatious?"
"Since when have you been on such friendly terms with the Inquisition, Master Isabell?" Devlin asked sharply. "I thought we were friends..."
"Put the swords away, and we can talk," the older-looking of the Inquisitors said as he stood from his chair. For a moment, he glanced at the youthful-looking knight, but other than moving to place himself between Devlinâs men and the young squire, the flame-haired knight hadnât made any obvious moves.
"After what Percivus has done, you have every right to be wary of us," Diarmuid added as he took several steps forward. "But the actions of one man, no matter how misguided..."
"Not one step closer!" Beathan shouted even as he took half a step forward himself. He lowered the point of his sword until the blade was parallel with the ground and bent his knees as he prepared himself for a powerful charge. At this distance, with a bit of luck, he could reach the Inquisitor before the other man could summon Holy Fire, though it would be a close thing. Still, he had to try.
"Elgon, I leave the knight to you," Devlin said quietly, taking half a step back. "If you can hold the line, Iâll make for the docs with the rest..."
"Please, youâre all misunderstanding, we arenât your enemies," Diarmuid insisted, holding his hands up in a helpless gesture as he directed his words to the Templar leveling a sword at his chest.
"The Light reveals the truth, but truth lies beneath the surface, so the faithful must carry the light forward into darkness," Diarmuid recited, meeting Beathanâs eyes directly. "For just five minutes, put your sword down and let us talk, then judge the truth of what we say for yourselves..."
For a moment, Beathanâs conviction seemed to waver, and the tip of his sword lowered ever so slightly. But then, he remembered what Percivus had told everyone while he kept Lady Jocelynn in the dungeon. That she was simply âconfined to her chambersâ while the Inquisition questioned others. That he was only âlooking for the truth,â and seeking to âprove her innocence.â
"Never again," Beathan said as the tip of his sword moved back into position, this time with a much firmer grip on the hilt of his sword. "Iâve had enough of the Inquisitionâs lying and stalling for time while you hide your wickedness from the light. Never again!"
"Enough," A smooth, feminine voice commanded from the top of the stairs that led to the private dining rooms. Her voice was rich and powerful, filling the grand chamber and demanding everyoneâs attention.
"My sister risked everything to send you all here," the woman continued as she stepped out onto the landing at the top of the stairs in full view of everyone below. "I will not see her efforts wasted on pointless bloodshed, not now, when we need to stand together."
On the ground floor, the people from Blackwell froze in shock. There was a faint clatter as a knife fell from Captain Devlinâs suddenly weak fingers, but it was Sir Elgon who had the strongest reaction... After all, heâd been one of Rhys Blackwellâs knights since the woman standing atop the stairs was old enough to walk.
"How, how can it be?" Elgon said numbly as he stared up at the woman whose memorial heâd attended just the day before. "Lady, Lady Ashlynn," he breathed. "Is it, is it really you?"