Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  The gathering room proved to be a small chamber to the left of the Great Hall. A guard came to attention as they approached, and after rapping once on the door, opened it. Devlin entered the room. When he looked back, he found that his guide had disappeared.

  There were perhaps a dozen people in the room, standing talking in small groups. A few heads turned as he entered, but after a dismissive glance they returned to their own conversations.

  “Finally. Have you no sense of time? His Majesty is expected any moment,” the Royal Steward said, breaking away from one of the groups. His eyes swept over Devlin from head to toe, lingering on the shabby boots, and his lips pursed narrowly.

  Devlin returned his gaze evenly.

  “Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” the steward said, shaking his head. “Come now, and we will fulfill our duties.”

  The steward led Devlin toward a small group of nobles who stood in a semicircle around a central figure dressed in brilliant white. The object of their attention was recounting a story, and some smiled politely, while others sipped a pale wine from slender glasses.

  The steward waited, Devlin at his shoulder, until the nobleman had finished his story and the laughter had died away.

  The nobleman turned toward the Royal Steward and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Your Grace,” the steward said, with a slight bow. “It is my duty to present to you Devlin Stonehand of Duncaer, the new Chosen One. Chosen, this is Duke Gerhard, the King’s Champion and General of the Royal Army.”

  Duke Gerhard barely glanced at Devlin. “I greet you, Chosen One, and welcome you to the King’s service.” The words were gracious, but there was no true welcome in his eyes.

  Devlin decided that this man did not rate a proper greeting. Instead he used a phrase he had learned in his journeys. “The honor is mine,” he said, giving a short bow in the Jorskian style. Duke Gerhard acknowledged the bow with a mere inclination of his head, then moved away.

  With the air of a man performing a distasteful duty, the steward introduced Devlin to the other occupants of the room. Devlin acknowledged each introduction with grave courtesy, then promptly forgot their names. To his eye, one richly dressed Jorskian noble resembled another.

  Even his encounter with the King proved a disappointment, for his fine robes could not disguise the fact that the ruler of Jorsk was approaching middle age, with thinning blond hair and the beginnings of a paunch. The King wore the expression of a nervous and anxious man, and he acknowledged Devlin’s introduction with but a wave of one jeweled hand.

  Or perhaps the wave had been a signal, for a moment later the steward beckoned imperiously and two Royal Guards opened the set of double doors that led into the Great Hall. The King proceeded through the doors, followed by his courtiers.

  As Devlin entered the hall, a servant stepped from the sidelines and bowed to him. “Chosen One, I will show you to your place,” he said. Like the rest, he was careful not to meet Devlin’s gaze.

  While the King and his intimates ascended to the dais and took their places at the high table, Devlin was escorted to the head of the table on the farthest right of the hall. A servant poured a glass of wine, and Devlin sipped it slowly as he watched the members of the court file in. Only half the tables had been set for eating, and he realized why as he saw the number of empty seats. Either the King’s court was smaller than it had been, or many of the nobles had chosen to stay at their estates rather than make their presence felt in the capital.

  Two brightly dressed courtiers drew near, then stopped abruptly as they noticed his presence. After a whispered consultation, they took seats at the far end of his table. They were joined by an older woman in a plain dark gown and a young man garbed in a blue uniform the color of the summer sky.

  “I am Lieutenant Olafson, aide to Duke Gerhard,” the young man said, as he took the seat at Devlin’s left. He was the only one to overtly acknowledge Devlin’s presence.

  “Lieutenant,” Devlin replied, acknowledging him with a curt nod. Like the rest of his people, he had no love for the members of the army. Even after fifty years as a part of the Jorskian empire, Duncaer had yet to be assimilated. The army troops sent there knew full well they were not there to defend Duncaer’s borders, but rather to control its native population.

  The other diners ignored him, as if by refusing to acknowledge him they could pretend he did not exist. He made them uneasy, Devlin realized, as would any man who lived under the sentence of death. In their eyes he was already dead, and thus they treated him as a nonperson.

  He found their lack of courtesy odd, but their rudeness had no power to wound him. Indeed he cared not what they thought of him. Those whose opinions mattered were hundreds of leagues away, and he knew full well how they regarded him.

  Indeed, this custom of Chosen One was a strange one. As a foreigner in Jorsk his welcome had been cold. As the Chosen One, his welcome was glacial. The strange folk gave him the title of lord, but treated him with scant courtesy. It was all show, and no substance beneath.

  Servants bustled in with the first course, river fish garnished with summer vegetables. This was followed by a pastry shell stuffed with a meat he could not identify. Partridge perhaps, or some other fowl. Devlin ate what he could, but he could not do justice to the elaborate meal, although those around him seemed to have no such problem. The young lieutenant ate as if he knew this would be his last meal.

  As he ate, Devlin caught scraps of conversation.

  “A complete barbarian…”

  “What else can one expect? In these times…”

  “I heard Master Dreng is giving seven to one odds that…”

  Devlin had a feeling that his survival was the subject of the bet. So the last wager had not been enough to cure the mage of his folly. He wondered if the sorcerer was now betting for Devlin’s longevity or if he was wagering on Devlin’s imminent demise.

  The meal passed without incident. Devlin ate until he could hold no more, than began to refuse the dishes offered. The servants brought pitchers of pale yellow and strong red wine, but after two glasses he stopped partaking of these as well. He had no wish to spend the night with his wits fuzzed from drink. His attention turned first to the chandeliers, suspended on long chains that hung down from the high ceiling. The metal looked like silver, but only steel or iron could bear such weight. Although the chains could be silver-plated. He would have to find time to examine them someday.

  His attention then turned to the courtiers, his eyes wandering over the room. The gathering seemed strange to him. At first he thought it was because he was unaccustomed to seeing people dressed in such finery. Then he realized it was simply that there were no children. In Duncaer it would have been unthinkable to exclude the children of the guests. Even on the solemnest occasion, the babes might have been left with others, but those who had had their name day would certainly have been included. Yet in this gathering only the pages serving the royal table were below the age of adulthood. He shook his head, wondering what other strange customs these Jorskians held dear.

  At last the King rose, and the court stood as His Royal Majesty left the room. Some of those present then sat down to resume their feast, but Devlin used the opportunity to slip away.

  It was full dark, and it was nearly two days since he had last slept. But he felt no desire to return to his room, to face memories of what he had attempted the previous night. Instead he began to pace the corridors of the castle, exploring with no particular destination in mind.

  It was nearly midnight when Captain Drakken found him. He had made his way to the battlements and stood at the edge of the parapet, staring out at the city revealed below.

  The moonlight lent a silvery sheen to his gray uniform. For a moment she wondered what the King’s Champion was doing here at this hour, and then realized from his dark hair that this was the Chosen One.

  Captain Drakken had been on duty that evening, so she had missed the weekly court dinner. From his attire
the Chosen One had been compelled to attend, and she wondered what he had thought of the experience. It was not every day that a peasant was invited to share the King’s board.

  As she drew near, she realized how dangerously close he was to the edge. One foot rested on the ledge, the booted toes projecting into space.

  “It is a long drop from here,” she said softly, not wishing to startle him.

  “You need have no fear. The Geas will not let me jump.”

  His bitter humor caught her by surprise. She had not thought of his jumping, merely in terms of a careless misstep. If any of her guards had been caught in such a dangerous position she would have taught them a lesson they would not soon forget.

  But Devlin Stonehand was not one of her guards, and so she waited patiently in silence. After a moment he stepped back from the ledge and turned to face her.

  “Was there a reason you sought me out?” he asked.

  Torches placed every ten paces illuminated the battlements, casting a flickering light that made it difficult to read his expression.

  Now that she was faced with him, Captain Drakken hesitated. Who was Devlin Stonehand? Was he simply another in a long line of failures who would be lucky if he did not take innocents with him when he met his death? Or was there something more to him?

  She rubbed her hand on her chin, as she often did when thinking. There was but one way to find out the mettle of this man, and that was to put him to the test.

  She came to attention and gave the formal salute, thumping her fist on her shoulder. “Chosen One, I have a task for you.”

  Devlin nodded.

  “There are reports of a band of marauders living in Astavard forest, who prey on travelers along the King’s old highway.”

  “Why hasn’t the local militia taken care of these robbers?”

  “Astavard is part of the King’s own lands, a royal hunting preserve grown wild in these uncertain times. The King journeys there no more, and thus has decided the road is of little importance. The councilors have agreed that there is no need to send anyone to investigate. Not until the losses grow more serious,” she said, trying to keep the bitterness from her tone.

  Fools! What would it take till they saw the truth? The roads were the lifeblood of the Kingdom. They carried taxes and royal decrees. Traders and noble councilors alike depended upon safe passage. As did the army, in times of war. They could not afford to lose control of the roads, and yet she could not convince the council to act. When it became clear that the Duke Gerhard was unwilling to commit the Royal Army, she had asked for permission to send a squad of Guardsmen, on the pretext of inspecting the royal hunting lodge, which fell under her purview as part of the royal residences. A training exercise she had called it, but that had been forbidden as well.

  So far the bandits had been clever enough not to attack a noble, or a royal messenger, but she feared that it was only a matter of time until they did. Then and only then would the council be forced to heed her words.

  “I see,” Devlin said, after a long pause. “The army cannot be bothered with these marauders, so you are sending me instead. Tell me, do you have any reports as to their number? Is it a half dozen fools or a well-organized band?”

  She shrugged. “There is no way to tell. But large parties pass unhindered, so reason tells me this is a smallish group, or perhaps merely a careful one. The attacks go back at least a year, maybe longer, yet no one has found a trace of their victims, or their camp in the woods.” This was the part that concerned her most. The thoroughness with which the bandits covered their tracks spoke of a highly organized group. “Mind you, if it is a large band, I do not expect you to take them on single-handedly. Survive to bear witness to what you have seen, and I will convince the King to send the Royal Army in pursuit.”

  It was a fool’s errand, but she had nothing to lose. At best Devlin would find the proof she needed to convince King Olafur that there was a real and present danger. At worst he would be killed in the attempt, which would be a waste, but would certainly be enough to convince the King and Council that the marauders posed a serious menace.

  She did not believe for a moment that Devlin would be able to defeat the bandits. Only in ballads did a lone hero take on overwhelming odds and emerge triumphant.

  Devlin took a step closer to her, so that the torchlight shone full on his face. “I accept the task,” he said, with no trace of expression. Even his gaze was strangely flat, as if he were looking through her rather than at her.

  “I thank you,” she said, feeling an uncomfortable twinge of pity for she knew he had no choice but to accept the task she had given him. The Geas would let him do no less.

  She fought back an urge to countermand her order, having a sudden premonition that she was sending this man to his death. But she steeled herself against the impulse. She was the Captain of the Guard. Sending men and women to die was part of her job, as was protecting the residents of Kingsholm. And this man was not one of her guards, nor one of those she was sworn to protect. By his own choice he had made himself into a tool, and only a fool would refuse to make use of his services while he still lived.

  “My Guard will help you with your gear, and the Royal Steward will provide anything else you need. You have only to ask.”

  “I thank you,” he said. “And now, if you will excuse me, I bid you good night.”

  After his talk with Captain Drakken, Devlin had returned to his quarters. He slept only a few hours, rising before the dawn. But his rest had been blessedly free of dreams, and that alone had the power to grant him ease.

  It was midmorning when he left. The guards at the main palace gate came to attention and saluted him as he passed between them. But there was no fanfare, no wishes for the success of his journey, no comradely encouragement.

  By noon he had left the city of Kingsholm, passing out of the western gate. It felt good to be traveling again— whatever the reason. His new boots had been ready, and they fit better than he had hoped. But still they needed time to break in, and he planned on a short day’s journey. He would stop before sunset rather than pushing on as had been his custom. All he wanted was to get far enough away from the royal city that buildings no longer crowded him on each side and he could see the land rather than being hemmed in by wood and stone.

  The Geas dwelled in the back of his mind, and he felt its pull, urging him toward the west and on to his mission. But its compulsion was but a faint shadow of the burning need that had driven him to Kingsholm, to take this oath. He could bear it. For now.

  His thoughts turned to Captain Drakken. He knew she did not expect him to succeed. Rather she saw him as a tool, an advantage to be gained in the world of court politics. If he returned with news of the robbers, well then, it was more than she had now. And if he failed, at least he had not taken any of her guards with him.

  Some men might have felt insulted to be used in such a fashion, but Devlin found himself admiring her ruthlessness. She had the toughness needed to command. He suspected she did not like what she had done, and yet felt sure she would do it again if the opportunity arose.

  Cerrie, too, had followed the warrior’s path. There were times when he spoke to Captain Drakken when he caught a glimpse of what Cerrie might one day have become. If she had lived another fifteen years, tempering her courage with experience. If she had chosen to stay with the peacekeepers, rather than to resign and throw her lot in with him. If only—

  He clenched his fist, letting the pain distract him from his unwelcome thoughts. He would not think of Cerrie, or of what might have been. The past was gone forever, and with it his future. There was only the present, a time that would be blessedly short, if the Gods had any mercy in their souls. He need only journey to Astavard, to face his destiny.

  “He has left? Already? But I had no word, and he did not stop by the temple to beg for the blessing of the Gods. It is customary, you know,” Brother Arni fretted.

  Captain Drakken nodded, her eyes still adjusting to th
e gloom of the temple after the bright summer’s day.

  “I had a message from the guards at the West Gate,” she said. “The Chosen One left the city on his quest before the noon bells rang.”

  “I do not understand. Surely he could have spared a moment to pray before he left.”

  “He left quite early,” Captain Drakken said, trying to pacify him. “I understand he roused the Royal Steward out of his bed before dawn.”

  She suppressed a grin at the thought of the Royal Steward’s reaction to such an impertinent request. He was an arrogant sod, and deserved to be taken down a peg or two.

  The priest rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps he wished to make his devotions in private, and visited the temple before I arose. Yes, that must be it. He is a foreigner, after all.”

  Captain Drakken doubted very much that the Chosen One had done any such thing, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

  “Now he has left, would you fetch the stone?” Captain Drakken asked, coming to the point of her visit.

  “Oh. Of course.” Brother Arni turned and strode over to the altar. He bowed deeply before it, intoning a short prayer. Then he straightened up and approached the altar, taking from it the wooden box that had rested there since the time of the Choosing Ceremony.

  As he slid the box open, she could see a ruby glow from inside. He lifted the soul stone reverently from the case and it pulsed with light, as if it were a beating heart. Turning, Brother Arni advanced to the wall in the back of the temple. An intricate mosaic covered its surface, mapping the imperial lands in exquisite detail. With a bow Brother Arni opened his hands and tossed the stone into the air.

  The stone arced toward the wall, then clung to it, seeming to be as much a part of the mosaic as if it had always been there.

  Captain Drakken stepped forward and peered at the mosaic. At shoulder height, she found the familiar double circle that indicated the city of Kingsholm. And, there, on the thin brown line that represented the Western Road, the soul stone was affixed.