Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  He tried to move, but he was frozen in place, knowing the horror to come. “Cerrie! Cormack! The woods!” his dream self screamed, but they could not hear him. For he was not really there, just as he had not been there on that awful day.

  At the last moment Cerrie turned and saw the approaching danger. She called out a warning, and seizing the small trowel, ran toward the basket where the infant lay. A banecat followed her. Cerrie turned and picked up a heavy gourd, hurling it toward the banecat with deadly aim. It struck the cat between the eyes, but the creature merely paused and shook his head before continuing its pursuit.

  Then the banecat sprang. As Cerrie fell, she covered the basket with her body. She struggled desperately, but a digging trowel was a poor weapon, and no match for the power of that unholy creature. Devlin could not bear to watch and yet his visions gave him no choice, compelled to stand witness as her struggles ceased and her life’s blood drained away in a crimson flood.

  Bile rose in his throat as he turned and saw that the other two creatures had already killed the man and the boy, savagely rending the bodies limb from limb. He could bear no more, and yet the greatest horror was yet to come.

  As her mother’s blood dripped into the basket, the tiny infant began to wail. The banecat nudged Cerrie’s body, then seemed to realize that the sound was coming from underneath her. Seizing Cerrie’s arm in his great jaws, he tugged at her body until the basket was uncovered.

  The baby continued to cry. Attracted by the noise, the other two banecats wandered over. The largest of them nuzzled the tiny body, then swatted the basket with his paw. Devlin’s fists clenched in helpless rage as the basket tipped and the baby tumbled out onto the dirt.

  One of the banecats began to bat the infant like a ball. The others took up the game, toying with the child as if she were a helpless mouse. The baby’s cries turned to shrieks of pain as their sharp claws pierced her skin. The banecats seemed to take a cruel delight in her torment, but eventually her cries weakened, and then ceased altogether.

  Losing interest in playing with the tiny corpse, the leader of the banecats padded away into the tiny cottage, but there was no one within. He gave a disdainful sniff at the bleating goats and squawking chickens in their pen, but unnatural beast that he was, he had no interest in such easy prey. Returning to his companions, they briefly touched muzzles, then melted back into the forest.

  Devlin found his dream self drawn to the corpse of the tiny infant. Kneeling down, he picked her up in his arms, straightening her limbs as if that would somehow make things better. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked at him with searing accusation.

  “Why?” she asked. It was the first and last word she would ever speak.

  He opened his mouth, but he had no answer. The spark of life faded from her eyes, and he was once again holding a corpse.

  As suddenly as it had began, the dream was over, and he awoke. Slowly he unclenched his hands, feeling the pain where his fingernails had bitten into his palms. He rubbed the last of sleep from his eyes, not surprised to find the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Only in his dreams could he weep for those he had lost.

  He felt an immense aching hollowness, as if all life, all feeling, had been drained from him, leaving nothing behind but a shell of a man. Against this hollowness, his grief and guilt were like two pebbles dropped into an enormous well. Nothing he did could change what had happened, or turn him back into the man that he had been before that day. He would never be free from his guilt, or from the horror of his dreams.

  He should have been there. He should have saved his family, or died with them. He did not deserve to live.

  The despair that was his constant companion rose up and threatened to overwhelm him. It would be so simple to give in to his demons and end his torment. Devlin fought back the despair, as he had on so many occasions before. You cannot give in to your pain, he reminded himself. You have promises to keep.

  But he had paid his debts with the nine golden disks he had sent to Duncaer. He had kept his promise to see that Cormack’s wife and remaining children would be cared for. There was no reason why he shouldn’t give in to his craving.

  A small voice whispered that an honorable man would not accept the King’s reward, and then kill himself before he could fulfill his oath. The man that he had once been would never have contemplated such a dishonorable act. But the man he had become knew that the call of honor weighed little when measured against endless torment.

  Devlin rose and picked up his knife from the table where he had placed it the night before. It was small, and served mostly as an eating knife. Nonetheless, like all his blades its edge was as sharp as he could make it.

  Oblivion beckoned, but he paused for a moment, realizing that once he made this decision there would be no turning back. He searched his soul carefully, but found no reason why he should remain among the living. And all too many reasons why he should pay for his sins with his death. For though he had not killed them with his own hands, nonetheless he bore the guilt of their deaths. Wife, child, brother, nephew, all dead because of Devlin’s mistakes and what he had failed to do. His sister-in-law Agneta had been right when she named him kinslayer.

  He placed the knife back on the table and deliberately began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. A cut the long way would kill him swiftly. Picking up the knife, he held it in his right hand, then placed it against his left wrist. Exerting a firm pressure, he began to draw the blade upward. But instead of cutting, the blade skittered along the inside of his arm, making only a shallow scratch.

  Devlin stared for a moment. Never before had a blade turned in his hand. He tightened his grasp, and began again. This time the blade would not move at all. He swore, and strained with all the muscles his years as a smith had earned him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, yet despite his fiercest determination, he could not make the shallowest cut.

  It was as if his right hand had a will of its own. As soon as the thought occurred, he felt his concentration slip. In that instant he watched, a passive observer, as his right hand pulled the dagger away from his wrist and then flung the blade across the room, where it hit the wall, then fell to the floor. There it remained; for though he tried with all his concentration, Devlin could not will himself to pick it up.

  He stood up. A sword would do as well. But as soon as the thought formed, his legs froze and he could not take another step toward the deadly weapon.

  A cold shiver ran through him as he realized that there was only one explanation. The Geas. That strange binding spell that was part of the Choosing Ceremony. It was said that the Geas ensured that the Chosen remained faithful to their oath. And apparently this Geas held a dim view of anyone who would kill himself before embarking on his service.

  So be it. He scowled, and kicked the knife away with his boot. The Geas wouldn’t let him kill himself, but it couldn’t prevent Devlin from being killed by an enemy of Jorsk. All he had to do was find that enemy, and he would earn the death that he craved.

  Four

  THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN FOUND DEVLIN STILL seated in the wooden chair. The discarded knife lay on the floor next to him. In his hands he held the axe head, which he turned over and over, as if he could read his fate in the tempered steel. But there was nothing to be seen, save the reflection of his face.

  He did not like what he saw. The man who looked back had the eyes of a haunted man, a man who had seen too much horror to be completely sane. And behind the horror he could see the shadow of fear.

  The events of the previous night had shaken him. He had chosen death only to find that his own hands had betrayed him. All his strength of mind and will had been insufficient to wrest control away from the strange Geas that insisted he must live, in service of his oath.

  It was not that he feared remaining alive. But what more would the oath demand from him? His body was no longer his to command. At any moment the Geas might assert itself. The knowledge was like a great pressing weight upon him. How could any man l
ive with such a burden? No wonder the Chosen were killed so easily. They must have welcomed death, knowing that only death would free them from this ghastly bondage.

  But death was unlikely to find him in this chamber room. He would have to leave here to seek it.

  Rising from the chair, he crossed over to the wardrobe. The servants had removed the discarded clothing from his predecessors, and filled the chest with finely made shirts and trousers dyed a light gray color. A uniform, of sorts. He scorned these in favor of the plainer garb that he had purchased in the market.

  Leaving his quarters, he realized that he was hungry. But he had no idea where to get food. Did they expect him to fend for himself? Or was there a common meal served that he was expected to join?

  He left his room and made his way down the stairs to the ground floor. As he entered the main passageway, a woman walked by dressed in garb similar to the servants he had seen yesterday.

  “Mistress,” Devlin said. “Can you tell me where I might break my fast?”

  “New here, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  She shook her head in apparent dismay. “And fresh off the farm. What the palace is coming to when we have to hire such, I don’t know. Still you’ll be of no use to anyone till you’re fed. Just go down the passage here till the very end, then turn left. The common room is midway down the hall on your right. It’s late, but if you hurry there’ll still be something for you to eat.”

  “I thank you for your kindness.”

  The common room proved easy enough to find. As he approached he heard folk talking, and the dull sounds of metal utensils scraping against wooden bowls. The room itself was enormous, easily the size of a guild hall. The room was only partly full. Men and women sat together at plain wooden tables. Some were talking, others were consuming their food with frantic haste. Many wore the livery of castle servants, while a few appeared dressed for outdoor labor.

  Food of all sorts was laid out in bowls and pans on a table near the door. Devlin filled his trencher with something that looked to be made mostly out of eggs, and then added a chunk of bread. He poured himself a mug of kava, then took his food over to one of the empty tables. No one seemed to pay him any attention, so he settled himself down to eat.

  He listened, but those few bits of conversation he heard made no sense. Someone named Emer was in trouble for having shirked her duties during the festival. A nobleman named Bozarth was in disgrace, having gambled away something while in his cups. There was no mention of a new Chosen One.

  In the distance a bell sounded. From a table across the room he heard someone exclaim, “We’re late!” A group of youngsters rose hastily and left, but the older ones stayed seated.

  By the time he was drinking his second mug of kava, few diners remained. Two young girls appeared and began clearing away the dishes. Suddenly the room fell silent. Looking up, he saw Captain Drakken standing in the doorway. He did not rise, and after a moment she came over and slid onto the bench opposite him.

  Those few who remained suddenly rose and left, as if they had just recalled urgent business elsewhere. Even the serving girls, after sidelong glances at Captain Drakken, left the room with the cleaning only half-done.

  “You make them nervous,” he said.

  “Not half so nervous as they would have been, had they known that the new Chosen One had decided to dine among them.”

  He did not need to be reminded that the Chosen One was held in fear and contempt. His discussion the night before with the minstrel Stephen had told him all that he needed to know on that subject.

  “A servant directed me here,” he said.

  “And if you had worn the uniform of the Chosen One, she would have directed you to the Great Hall.”

  “Is the food there any better?”

  “No,” Captain Drakken said. “But it is expected that the Chosen One will dine in the hall. It is a matter of custom and courtesy. But I did not come to speak of customs. I came to tell you about the sword you shattered.”

  “Indeed?” he asked, interested in spite of himself.

  Captain Drakken leaned forward. “Two years ago, a smith made a dozen swords for us. Three were lost with their Chosen, and the fourth was the one you destroyed. After the ceremony I had a smith examine the eight that remained. Five of them had similar flaws.”

  There was a long moment of silence as he contemplated her words.

  “This has no sense. Why spoil some of the swords and not all?” It could have been months or years before one of the flawed swords was put to use. What was the purpose of so chancy a scheme? Could the smith have been merely incompetent? Yet an apprentice should have been able to spot the flaw.

  Captain Drakken shrugged and spread her hands wide. “I agree, it makes no sense. The smith who made the swords left the city soon after executing the commission. I have sent messengers out, but I doubt that we will find any trace of him.”

  “And how good is the smith that you had examine the swords? Can he be trusted?”

  “Master Timo has served as armorer to the castle for twenty years. He made the sword that I gave you. Two years ago he broke his arm in an accident, which is why the sword commission was given to another.”

  He had no reason to question her judgment. And Captain Drakken’s sword had been well made, which spoke for this Timo’s skill. But he could not shake the sense that there was something more going on here than a few flawed swords.

  “You should assume that all the swords are tainted, and have them melted down and reforged. And if your smith had a broken arm, no doubt there were other commissions that he had to refuse. Have your guards check every weapon they have for flaws. Ask everyone what else the traitor may have worked on, no matter how big or small, and if there is any doubt, have it forged anew,” he said, his voice firm as if he were giving orders to one of his apprentices. Even as he spoke, he knew the words were not wholly his own. It was the Chosen One who spoke, and who felt entitled to give orders to the Captain of the Guard.

  Captain Drakken gave him a measuring look, but he returned her gaze steadily.

  “Do you truly think this necessary? It will mean a great deal of work, not to mention expense to the treasury …”

  “Do it,” he said sharply. “Even if you find nothing, it will reassure the guards. You do not want to lead them into battle when they are not sure if they can trust their weapons.”

  She grimaced. “I doubt very much that the King will let us see battle anytime soon. He holds us too close to the city, safe away from the disturbances that plague the out-lands. But I will do as you say.”

  He nodded. “And if you have no objection, I would speak with this smith myself.”

  The forge was located on the northern side of the palace grounds, just inside the inner stone wall. As Devlin stepped through the narrow entranceway, he was struck at once by the fierce heat. Against the far wall the fire bed glowed. Iron rang against steel as the smith expertly hammered away at a horseshoe. At Devlin’s entrance the smith looked up but then returned his gaze to his work.

  Devlin looked around, noticing that the forge boasted not one but four anvils, of differing sizes. There were two workbenches, each of which had an assortment of hammers, tongs, chisels, punches, and other tools for working metal. Raw bars of iron, steel, and other metals lay on racks, while near the door were shelves containing examples of the smith’s work, knives, buckles, saddle irons, and horseshoes.

  Save that the building was made of wood, not stone, he could have been in his master’s forge in Alvaren. A sudden wave of longing swept over him as he remembered how once he had dreamed of his own forge, and of the great work that he would do there.

  The hammering increased in tempo as the shoe neared completion. Then the smith moved the shoe from the bick of the anvil to the flat face. Laying down the tongs, he picked up a punch in his left hand. Seven quick blows resulted in seven perfect nail holes. Returning the hammer and punch to the tool rack, the smith then used the t
ongs to pick up the shoe and douse it in the trough of water. When the water ceased hissing he pulled the shoe out and turned it over in his hands to inspect it. After a moment he nodded, placing the shoe with a stack of others on the bench.

  Only then did he acknowledge Devlin.

  “Good day to you,” he said.

  “Master Timo, is it not?”

  The smith nodded.

  “Captain Drakken spoke well of you,” Devlin said. “I have some work to be done, and will pay you well for the use of your forge and tools.”

  “You wish to use my forge, but to do the work yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” Master Timo shook his head emphatically. “There’s not enough gold in the Kingdom to pay me to stand by while some fool who fancies himself a smith ruins my tools.”

  Devlin understood the smith’s reluctance. If this were his forge, he’d feel the same. In his head a voice insisted that there was no reason to try and persuade the smith. As Chosen One, Devlin could simply order the man to obey. Devlin ignored the voice, and tried again.

  “I apprenticed for seven years, and served as journeyman for three more. I understand your concern, and I would not ask if my need were not great.”

  “Let me see your hands.”

  Devlin shifted his pack on his shoulder, and propped his staff against the door. Then he held out his hands, turning them over so the smith could see the faint scars that he bore on both sides. Even the most careful of smiths had scars to show the risks of working with hot metal, and Devlin bore his fair share.

  Master Timo grunted. “It has been a while since you worked your trade. But those are the hands of a smith. I will not lend you my tools, but for sake of our craft, tell me what you want done and I will do it for you without cost.”

  Devlin hesitated for a moment, tempted. The task itself was easy enough, just fitting the axe head onto the new helve. Any reasonably skilled smith could do it. But it was no ordinary war-axe. Deep inside his bones he knew the weapon itself was cursed, and he could not ask this man to take the risk that the curse would fall on him as well.