Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  The Chosen One had already accomplished much. If he continued to survive, he would become a powerful symbol and could be a potent ally in the struggle to restore order to the Kingdom. Yet how could she trust him when it was clear that he did not trust her? He gave nothing of himself away.

  The Chosen One turned to leave. She held her breath, counting heartbeats until he reached the door.

  “There is one thing more,” she said, as if she had only just remembered. “A letter came for you. I have been holding it for your return.”

  He froze in midmotion, his hand grasping the doorframe, but he did not turn around.

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “It was delivered to the palace, addressed to Devlin of Duncaer. The address is in Caer script. I assume that is for you.”

  She could tell she had taken him by surprise, as she had intended. His shoulders knotted, and his hand squeezed the doorframe until she thought the wood would crack beneath his grip. Then, with a visible effort, he relaxed and turned around.

  Rising, she walked around to her desk and pulled open the center drawer. From it she withdrew a square of parchment sealed in wax. She held it out, and slowly the Chosen One advanced. He took the letter gingerly, as if it might bite.

  He looked at the letter, and at the script, and his head nodded slightly as if he had confirmed something long suspected. Then he tore it open. His eyes devoured the contents in a single glance, then he crumpled the missive in his fist.

  He tossed the letter into the fire and watched as the parchment began to singe. For an instant the paper unfolded in the intense heat, and she thought she saw a series of circles, or were they crowns? But before she could be certain the parchment burst into flames, and the message was lost forever.

  With a last mocking glance, the Chosen One took his leave. She watched him go, half-regretting that her sense of honor had kept her from opening the letter in his absence. Next time she would not be so careful. Still she knew more than she had before. There was at least one person in Duncaer who knew of Devlin’s existence … and who had the power to disturb the Chosen One’s icy detachment.

  Seventeen

  THUNK! THE STEEL AXE SLICED THROUGH THE WOOD, cleaving it neatly into two pieces that fell away onto the ground. Devlin picked up the next piece from the stack beside him and set it on the frame. He swung the axe, and another piece was neatly divided.

  The autumn morning was chilly, and frost covered the stone courtyard. The youth whose task this was sat perched on the lumber cart, huddled in his coat, his hands tucked under his arms. At first Devlin, too, felt cold, but as he settled into his labor his muscles warmed up, and he paused to strip off his coat.

  He settled into the rhythm of the task, letting his mind drift. A tradesman’s receipt. Murchadh had sent him a tradesman’s receipt. He felt a flash of anger, and the axe cleaved through the wood and more, embedding itself in the wooden base below.

  A tug was enough to remove the axe, and he resumed splitting the wood, careful not to let his emotions overwhelm him.

  He had never expected to hear from Murchadh, for his friend had joined with the others in declaring Devlin forsaken. In their eyes he was already dead. Yet Murchadh had sent a tradesman’s receipt. Nine stylized circles and the sign of his forge. There were no words, but it was enough. All nine golden disks had been delivered, which meant that Devlin had fulfilled his obligation.

  But how had Murchadh known where to find him? One of the wool traders must have gossiped, despite Devlin’s warnings. He had known that relying on such folk was chancy, but at the time it had not seemed to matter. He had been sure that he would be long in his grave by the time Murchadh received the coins and drew his own conclusions as to their source.

  Devlin’s confidence had been misplaced, for it was autumn, over four months after his arrival in Kingsholm. And though he had faced death thrice already, his old luck still held. Lord Haakon was not yet ready to welcome Devlin into his kingdom.

  A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran through him as he wondered bleakly if the Lord of Death would ever be ready to take him. What if there was no death in store for him? What if this half-life was Devlin’s fate, a punishment worse than any death could be?

  He heard a voice behind him, but ignored it, lifting the final piece of wood into place. Then the voice called more loudly. “Devlin!”

  He swung. The axe cut cleanly through the wood, and he set the axe in the chopping frame. He turned.

  Captain Drakken regarded him quizzically as the youth scrambled off his perch and began stacking the kindling in the lumber cart.

  “The wood offended you?” she inquired.

  “My muscles needed the work.”

  The cart quickly filled, and he realized he had no idea how long he had been chopping wood. At least half an hour, maybe more. It was hard to tell, for the sun had yet to banish the gray predawn mist.

  She came closer, and he observed that she was dressed casually, in woolen leggings and tunic, with a long sword belted around her waist.

  “I know of few souls who would brave the dawn chill for exercise,” she said. Then her eyes widened. “That is your axe!”

  “Of course.”

  “But it is a weapon, not a common tool. How can you treat it so?”

  Ah. Her outrage was that of a purist. Many warriors regarded their weapons as sacred, and treated them with reverence. As a metalsmith, Devlin had no such illusions. In the end, a weapon was but a tool, no different from any other tool made of cold metal.

  He lifted the axe out of the frame and wiped the blade clean with a rag from his belt. Then he ran his thumb along the edge, but as he expected there were neither nicks nor scratches. The steel held true.

  “It is only an axe. What better use for it than chopping wood?”

  Captain Drakken shook her head. “I do not understand you. But I must continue on my way, for my practice partner will not be pleased if I keep him waiting.”

  “I will walk with you, if I may. I presume the guards have a target for practicing at the bow?”

  “Of course. There are several in the training yards, near where you saw the sword drills. Come, I will show you, since it is on my way.”

  “I thank you for your courtesy,” Devlin said.

  Sheathing his axe, he picked up his coat, then the transverse bow and quiver, which he had brought with him. Turning to the servant boy, he said, “The same time tomorrow. And bring more wood.”

  As they walked, Captain Drakken eyed the axe in his hand and shook her head. “The axe is a common weapon among our people, but I had not heard it was used in Duncaer as such.”

  “Few in Duncaer would consider it a weapon at all,” Devlin agreed. Even he had not. When he had forged the axe, he had intended it for use in clearing forest land in the New Settlement, where oak and heartwood were common. And so he had forged an axe blade of great size, twice again the size of an ordinary axe. The steel blade had been a testament to his skill, while the size of the axe meant that only one of his size and strength could effectively wield it. He had been well paid for his conceit. Never would he have begun the making if he had realized that the axe’s true destiny was to cleave flesh and not wood.

  He forced the unwelcome thought from his mind. “The transverse bow is the weapon I was trained with,” he said in an attempt to change the subject. “Smaller than your crossbow, it uses lighter bolts but is more accurate.”

  She turned her head, and her steps slowed as his words caught her interest. “Why would a metalsmith be trained?”

  “It is the law.”

  “All smiths must practice at the bow? There is no such law,” she scoffed.

  Her words puzzled him, and then he realized his mistake. For a moment he had forgotten that she was a foreigner. “It is our law,” he explained. “All must choose a weapon on their naming day, and train until they can demonstrate their skill. Those who live outside the cities and the protection of the peacekeepers must jo
in the militia and drill on the first day of each month. Only those who are crippled or have served for seven sevens in years are excused.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Except the feeble-witted. A few choose the sword, but most will use the spear or the bow. Wooden bows are common in the country, though a city dweller may have a transverse bow made of steel.” Steel was all too rare in Duncaer, for each precious bar of iron had to be imported at great cost. In Duncaer, possessing a steel axe and transverse bow were signs that he had once been prosperous.

  Captain Drakken shook her head from side to side. “So all of your people are trained in the art of war? That explains much.”

  It was one of the things that had puzzled him about the people of Jorsk. From the earliest age, Caerfolk were taught that they must rely upon each other for protection. All drilled at their weapons so they would be ready to face any danger. In Duncaer, the skrimsal would never have escaped unscathed. If the villagers had been unable to deal with the creature themselves, they would have summoned nearkin and farkin until the weight of their numbers overwhelmed the beast.

  Compared to his folk, the people of Jorsk seemed strangely passive. They relied upon others for their protection, whether it be the Guard, the Royal Army, or the Chosen One. And yet somehow these people had forged a mighty empire.

  “Our skills are not infallible. If they were, Duncaer would still be a Kingdom, and not a mere province of Jorsk,” he said.

  “We won it. But I wonder how long we can hold it?” she mused.

  For that he had no answer.

  A few days after Devlin’s return to Kingsholm, he attended the weekly court dinner, held in the Great Hall. Devlin took his customary seat at the head of the table on the farthest right, where the lesser members of the court gathered. The servants brought wine for all, and then King Olafur called upon Devlin to rise. Devlin stood there uncomfortably, the focus of all eyes, as the King praised his courage in defeating the giant skrimsal. It was an intensely uncomfortable experience, but mercifully it was brief, and after the formal speech, no further mention was made of the incident, for which Devlin was duly grateful.

  He thought the matter well forgotten, but a week later he returned to his quarters to find that he was summoned to meet with the King on the next morning. The invitation was politely worded, but nonetheless it was a command. Devlin wondered at the reason for this summons. Could it be that the King had a task for the Chosen One? An errand that would take him far from this wretched city? He could but hope.

  The next morning, he rose before dawn as was his custom, then went down to the courtyard to perform his exercises. As the rest of the palace began to stir, he made his way back to his room, summoning a chamberman with hot water so he could bathe the sweat from his body. Then he dressed carefully in the court uniform of the Chosen One.

  As he left his room shortly before the appointed hour, he found a chamberwoman waiting to escort him to the King’s apartments. He followed her as she led him down the stairs and through the corridors until they reached the older section of the palace. Here the floors were not wood parquet, but marble tile, worn smooth with age.

  Only the presence of a guard standing at attention in the hallway marked the entrance to the King’s own apartments. As Devlin approached, the guard knocked once on the door with her fist.

  “He is expecting you,” the guard said, and as if on cue the door swung open behind her.

  Devlin had expected to find himself in an audience room, or perhaps an office, but instead the door revealed a small parlor, scarcely larger than his own quarters. The dark-paneled walls were hung with gaily colored silk tapestries, and while there were no windows, elaborate filigreed sconces lit the room brightly. In the center of the room was a small table, where King Olafur sat opposite his daughter Ragenilda.

  “Your Majesty. Your Highness,” Devlin said, bowing first to the King, and then to the young Princess. He hoped his surprise was not evident in his face.

  King Olafur acknowledged the bow with a brief inclination of his head. “Chosen One, this is my heir, the Princess Ragenilda.”

  The Princess rose from her chair and gave a brief curtsy. “My lord Chosen One,” she said solemnly, her bright blue eyes fixed on his.

  Devlin felt acutely uncomfortable. The King was his master, but how was he supposed to behave toward someone who was both a child and royal? He had no training for such situations.

  “Princess, I am honored by your presence,” he said at last, bowing again.

  The Princess resumed her own seat, and the King gestured that Devlin should join them as well. As Devlin sat at the table, two servants came in, bearing bowls of fish porridge and then a platter of pastries. Glasses were filled with a pale purple liquid, and then a cup of kava was placed in front of the King. A second cup was offered to Devlin, and he seized upon it as if it were a lifeline.

  He realized two things in that instant. First, the presence of the young Princess made it unlikely that the King had an errand for the Chosen One. And second, that he was expected to break his fast with the King and the Princess, as if he were accustomed to rubbing elbows with royalty. Devlin felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine, and for a moment he wished himself far from here. Anywhere would be better than this, even another confrontation with the skrimsal.

  King Olafur took a sip of his kava, then took up his spoon and began to eat his porridge. The Princess did the same, and, after a moment, Devlin followed their example. The fish porridge was flavorful, but somehow in his imagination he had thought a King would have a taste for far grander fare. But perhaps the simpler food was in keeping with the Princess’s presence.

  “My daughter wished to meet you for herself,” King Olafur said, after a few moments of silence. “I thought such an informal setting would be more to your liking.”

  This was an informal setting? With a guard outside the door, and at least two servants always in the room with them? He wondered what the King thought to be a formal occasion, and then realized that he did not want to know.

  “It has been many years since I spoke to someone from Duncaer,” King Olafur said. “So tell me, are my subjects there still loyal to the empire?”

  Devlin took a sip of the rich kava, to give himself time to think. The Geas bound him to tell the truth, but he also knew there was nothing to be gained from insulting this man.

  “They are as loyal as they have always been,” Devlin said. The Caerfolk held little love in their hearts for the conquerors, but they were wise enough to know that rebellion was folly. As long as the Jorskians controlled the passes leading into the mountains, and their garrisons held the great city of Alvaren, there was little that the Caerfolk could do. But should the occupying army ever weaken—

  “That is good to hear,” King Olafur said, apparently oblivious to the true meaning of Devlin’s words. “And now with your example perhaps others of your folk will choose to enter our service.”

  Devlin shook his head. “I doubt there is any man or woman who would want to follow in my footsteps.”

  A servant coughed, and he realized that his answer had been less than politic. “Only the Fates can decide who will be called to be the next Chosen One,” Devlin added.

  The King set his spoon down, and the servants cleared away all three bowls of porridge, replacing them with plates of rare spiny-fruit from the south. The princess began to peel hers with a small knife. Devlin kept his hand firmly on his cup of kava. He had eaten enough for courtesy’s sake, and had no wish to make a fool of himself trying to peel apart the delicacy.

  But his gaze lingered on the Princess Ragenilda, who had remained silent so far. She was a pretty child, with wide blue eyes and long blond hair done in elaborate braids. Her face was solemn, and she was entirely too still, too self-possessed, for one who held only nine winters to her credit. He wondered if she ever smiled, and what it would take to set her at her ease.

  “Princess, was there some reason why you wished to meet me?” D
evlin asked.

  “Were you scared?” she asked.

  “I do not understand.”

  Princess Ragenilda took a last bite of the spiny-fruit and wiped her fingers carefully on the linen napkin. “Were you scared?” she repeated. “When you fought the lake monster?”

  “No,” Devlin said.

  “But they say it was as big as a tree. And it spit fire,” she argued.

  Devlin winced, wondering what version of the tale she had heard. He had said little in his report to the council, and after their return Stephen had declared that he would make no song of the event. But no doubt there were other minstrels who felt free to embroider the tale to suit their audience.

  “It was large, yes,” Devlin said. “A dozen times as long as your father the King is tall. But it did not spit fire.”

  “And you were not afraid?”

  “I had a duty to do. I knew if I did not kill it, then it would kill me, and go on to kill others. And then I was angry, because it stole my axe.”

  “Really?” The Princess leaned forward, and there was a faint smile on her lips. “It stole your axe?”

  “In a way, yes,” Devlin said. “So I had to kill it.”

  The Princess giggled.

  “The Chosen One showed great courage. Would that all my servants were as dutiful in their tasks,” King Olafur said.

  At his words the Princess’s brief animation faded. Recalled to her duty, she sat back in her chair, once again the picture of propriety. The young girl he had seen was gone, replaced by the Crown Princess of Jorsk. Devlin felt a flash of sympathy for the young Princess. The King seemed to treat her kindly; after all, he had invited Devlin simply because Ragenilda wished to meet the Chosen One. But it was a distant kindness, a formal relationship that was a far cry from the way a Caer family would behave. He wondered if she was ever allowed to escape the rigid confines of protocol and play as a child should. Perhaps matters might have been different if her mother had lived, but the Queen had died soon after Ragenilda’s birth.