Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  Even when she conversed with him in private, he maintained his impenetrable façade. It was as if his outburst in the temple had never happened, and yet now she realized how much his demeanor concealed. Underneath his icy surface lay an anger that burned all the more hotly for being hidden.

  The quiet lasted for nearly a month, as the fall turned into winter, and she began to hope that the trouble she feared would not materialize before spring. Then early one morning, as she sat at her desk reviewing the new watch schedule, she heard a knock at the door.

  “Come,” she said.

  She looked up to see Lieutenant Didrik. “Yes?”

  “Have you read last night’s watch reports?” he asked.

  “I read them as soon as I came in. Lieutenant Embeth reported nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Lieutenant Didrik’s face bore an unhappy expression. “I thought she might, and that was why I wanted to speak with you.”

  Now she understood the reason he looked so ill at ease. Lieutenant Embeth was senior, and she had been in command of the night watch. Lieutenant Didrik had been on duty as well, but it was the senior lieutenant who would dictate the reports of what happened.

  She wondered why Didrik, normally a stickler for the rules, had taken the step of going around Lieutenant Embeth. What could have made him so uneasy?

  “Out with it,” she said, when he did not seem ready to speak on his own.

  “There was a killing in the old city last night, just past the twelfth hour. A cutpurse picked on the wrong target, and was killed for his pains.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that was in the report. Unfortunate, but there seemed no question that the dead man had been the attacker and that the citizen had defended himself.”

  “The citizen attacked was the Chosen One,” Lieutenant Didrik said.

  Captain Drakken felt her eyebrows rise. “How do you know that? And why would Embeth leave out such a thing?”

  Lieutenant Didrik drew himself up. “I had city watch last night. When the incident was reported the patrol summoned me. And then when I realized who the target was, I reported to Embeth. She did not think it important.”

  “Did she tell you why not?” Captain Drakken asked. She would question Embeth in private later, but for now she wanted to get Didrik’s side of the story.

  “Dev—that is the Chosen One had just left a tavern called the Singing Fish when he was attacked as he passed a small alley. Embeth felt it was a random incident, that it was just luck that the Chosen One was the target. But I am not so sure. The attacker looked too well fed, too well dressed, to be a mere cutpurse.”

  So Didrik had more of a brain than she had suspected. And more courage as well, to take the risk of embarrassing a senior officer.

  “I thought you ought to know,” Lieutenant Didrik added. He looked pale and uncertain as he waited to see how she would react.

  “Were you able to identify this attacker? Did anyone recognize him? Perhaps another guard who had arrested him before?”

  “No,” Didrik said, shaking his head slowly. “We could find no one who claimed to know him. Of course, any of his acquaintances might be afraid to come forward once they realized that he had committed treason by attacking the Chosen One.”

  No doubt that was how Lieutenant Embeth viewed the situation. But Captain Drakken’s instincts led her to side with Didrik. The attack smelled too much like coincidence. And unlike Didrik, she already had reason to believe that at least one person in Kingsholm was working to destroy the Chosen One. They may have changed from using sorcerous tools to earthly assassins, but their goal remained the same.

  “You did well to come to me,” she said, and she could see Lieutenant Didrik practically sagging with relief.

  “Tell the clerk to draw up new orders. I want a guard on the Chosen One, night and day. The guard should be discreet, but if anything happens I want one of our own there. And make sure they are under orders to take any attackers alive if they can. We must find out who is sending them.”

  “Devlin is not going to like this,” Didrik pointed out.

  She knew he was going to hate it. For that matter, she would hate it herself. But, “It is not our duty to make him happy,” she said sternly. “It is our job to secure the city and to discover if there is a traitor lurking in our midst. Understood?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Lieutenant Didrik said, raising his right fist to his left shoulder in salute.

  As he left her office, Captain Drakken felt a sense of satisfaction. Here was her first lead in over a month. A shame that Devlin had killed his attacker before he could be questioned, but no matter. The next time they would be prepared.

  Nineteen

  THE SEASONS TURNED, AND THOSE COURTIERS WHO remained in the city gave up their linens and silks in favor of wool and furs. Snow fell, a rarity in Duncaer, but in Kingsholm it fell often and in great quantities, until the city was blanketed with white.

  With the court adjourned for the winter, there were few formal occasions that required Devlin’s attendance. Instead he busied himself in training, only gradually realizing that it was unlikely there would be a new crisis before spring.

  His demonstration with the throwing knives had started a fashion, and after watching the guards’ ludicrous efforts, he agreed to become their teacher. In time they ceased being a danger to themselves and gained sufficient accuracy that they could use the knives effectively, although none approached his level of mastery.

  When Lieutenant Didrik had offered to teach him the long sword, Devlin had agreed mostly out of boredom. He was not used to spending idle hours, and learning the sword seemed as good a use of his time as any. The lieutenant began by teaching him practice patterns, whose elaborate movements reminded him of the hours he had spent watching Cerrie practice her own forms. The patterns were easy enough to learn, and he drilled until his muscles knew them by heart.

  The practice fights were a different matter. He found himself trying to swing the sword like an axe, or use it as a hammer to bludgeon his opponent. Once, when Didrik provoked him, he threw away the sword and simply picked up the startled lieutenant by his arms, shaking him while the onlookers rolled on the practice floor in laughter. But gradually his instincts improved.

  On those rare occasions when he felt the need for companionship, he would join the guards in their hall for a few hours, or wander into the old city to wherever Stephen was playing. He became a common sight, and people no longer recoiled when they realized that the Chosen One was in their midst. But neither did they make any effort at courtesy or friendship. Only the guards and the minstrel Stephen treated him as if he were a man rather than simply a title.

  The night the robber attacked, Devlin had been at the Singing Fish, paying a visit to Stephen. They had dined together, swapping news and idly speculating about the latest rumors swirling around the court. Devlin had enjoyed himself, perhaps too much, for he had let his guard down. The attacker had been upon him, a garrote wrapped around his throat, before he knew what was happening.

  If the attacker had been quicker, or a trifle taller, then Devlin would have perished. But as it was, the garrote had been a shade too low, and had caught on the clasp of Devlin’s cloak, preventing the leather from fully encircling his neck. Instinct took over. Gasping for breath, he caught the garrote with the fingers of his right hand, then slammed his left elbow back, striking his attacker in the ribs.

  The attacker moaned, and the pressure eased fractionally. Devlin took a gulp of air and flexed his left arm so the knife fell into his palm. Reversing the knife in his hand, he then stabbed backward and as he felt the knife sink in he drove it upward and twisted it sharply.

  Warm blood gushed on his hand. The attacker loosed his grip on the garrote and fell onto the cobbles, screaming in pain. Devlin pulled the leather cord from around his neck and bent nearly in two as his deprived lungs sucked in air.

  The attacker bled to death before the guards arrived. That should have been the end of the matter, b
ut the next morning he discovered that Captain Drakken had given orders that he was to have a permanent escort. Every time he left his room, one of the Guard was underfoot. At first it seemed coincidence that whenever he turned he found one of the Guard lurking nearby. But then he realized that they were following him, sometimes in uniform, sometimes not. It was as if he had acquired a second shadow.

  He complained bitterly to Captain Drakken, but she refused to change her orders. She was convinced that the attack had not been a random robbery attempt, but was linked to the traitor that they both suspected was in the city. Devlin agreed with her logic, but not with her methods. He took to subterfuge and evasion, trying to shake off his watchdogs. To his disgust this only inspired them to cling more tightly to his side. It became a game with them, a matter of honor to have shadowed the Chosen One for an entire watch without losing track of him.

  Three days after the attack, Master Dreng sent word that he needed to speak with Devlin. This time when Devlin arrived at the mage’s residence, the elderly servant let him in at once and directed him to the mage’s workroom.

  As Devlin climbed the ladder to the attic loft, he noticed that the room was brightly lit, in sharp contrast to his previous visit.

  “Good, you got my message,” Master Dreng said, as Devlin’s head came into view. “I am glad you came so swiftly.” Master Dreng put down the scroll that he had been reading and came over to where Devlin stood. He extended his right hand.

  After a moment Devlin clasped the hand in his own, wondering why the mage felt compelled to offer the clasp of friendship. As he tried to read the mage’s expression he realized that for the first time in their acquaintance Master Dreng’s eyes were clear, and the hand that clasped his was steady. A remarkable change in one who was reputed to spend his entire life deep in his cups.

  “I see you have acquired a new scar,” Master Dreng said. “I heard rumors that you had been in a scuffle of some sorts, but from that scar on your neck it seems more serious than I thought.”

  “It was nothing,” Devlin said, though in his heart he believed whoever had sent the first attacker would try again. And Captain Drakken believed the same, for even now one of her guards was outside, trying to lurk inconspicuously in the square as he waited for Devlin to emerge.

  Master Dreng shook his head, but did not contradict Devlin. “Come now,” he said, gesturing to the pile of books and scrolls on his worktable. “I asked you here to share what I have discovered about the elemental that attacked you.”

  “Do you know who sent it?”

  “No,” Master Dreng said. From the bottom of a stack of books he pulled out a small volume bound in red leather and opened the book to a spot marked by a ribbon. “But I know what it was. Listen to this. ‘The element of darkness may be shaped and given form by a mind-sorcerer, according to his will. The stronger the sorcerer, the more substance he can bind. The creature of darkness will appear utterly black, and no light can illuminate it. It is most often created in the form of a man or a beast, but can change shape at will. No weapon can harm it. The only weakness is the will of the sorcerer who created it, for as his concentration wavers, the being loses form and will disappear from this plane of existence.’ ”

  “Is that all?” Somehow Devlin had expected more.

  Master Dreng closed the book with a snap. “The writer goes on to speculate that Mikaela’s lightning spell might destroy such a creature, if a mage of the first rank could be found to cast it in time.”

  “Of what use is this knowledge to me?” Had Master Dreng called him here merely to warn him? Devlin knew full well that there was no first-rank mage in the Kingdom. If his enemies sent another such creature, it would be up to him to defend himself. Again.

  “Don’t you see? The elemental was created by the sorcerer, shaped by his power and will. The sorcerer was linked to his creation, so when you destroyed the creature, the sorcerer would have felt the backlash. The negative energy may have killed him, or at the very least sorely wounded him.”

  “So perhaps this explains why there have been no further magical attacks,” Devlin mused.

  “And why they have switched to earthly tools to gain their ends,” Master Dreng said, the fingers of one hand tracing a ring around his own throat.

  It made a strange kind of sense. An enemy powerful enough to send such a creature after him would not have stopped with a single attack. Not unless the destruction of the creature had cost him in some way.

  This did not mean that Devlin was safe. The sorcerer might merely have been injured, and was now waiting, biding his time until he could strike again. Still, it was more than he had known before.

  “I thank you for this knowledge,” Devlin said.

  “This is but one of the reasons I wished to see you,” Master Dreng said. “Give me your ring.”

  “Why?”

  “The time for questions was before you became Chosen One. Now give me your ring.”

  Devlin stripped the ring off his finger and handed it to the mage. Master Dreng placed the ring in a silver bowl and set it in the center of the worktable. Then he went over to the shelves, and from a row of flasks he pulled forth a crystal bottle filled with a dark green liquid. Returning to the table, he poured the liquid into the bowl until it covered the ring.

  Master Dreng held his hands outstretched over the bowl and closed his eyes. Devlin took a step backward as the mage began to chant. Green smoke rose from the bowl and curled upward to disappear among the rafters. After a few moments the chanting stopped. Master Dreng lowered his hands and opened his eyes.

  Devlin stepped toward the table and peered into the bowl. The green liquid was gone and the ring lay inside, seemingly unharmed.

  Master Dreng picked the ring up and handed it to him. “Put this on,” he ordered.

  Devlin did as he was bid. “What did you do?”

  Master Dreng smiled. “I will tell you in a moment. But first, fetch the bottle of wine from the cupboard against the wall.”

  Devlin shrugged. So the mage wished to be mysterious. He would play along with this game for now. He walked over to the cabinet and reached for the bottle. As his hand approached, he felt the ring grow warm and begin to burn. He snatched his hand back, and the heat quickly faded.

  “What was that?”

  “The wine is poisoned,” Master Dreng said.

  “Poisoned?”

  “Yes. It was a test, to see if the spell worked. A man with enemies needs to beware of many threats. The ring will now warn you of poisons or drugs.”

  This was a potent gift indeed. “I am in your debt,” Devlin said.

  “No. The debt is not yours. As the master mage for the royal house, protecting you is one of my duties. I should have done this at once, rather than waited so long.”

  Master Dreng picked up a scroll in one hand and began to toy with it idly. He turned his head slightly, his gaze fixed on a point in the distance. “I have been thinking much of my duty, and of my own failings, in these days since we spoke in the temple.”

  His words made Devlin uneasy. It had not taken him long to regret his angry outburst, and to be ashamed that he had so revealed his weakness before Captain Drakken and Master Dreng. He had tried to put that memory far behind him.

  But it seemed Master Dreng had not forgotten. “I have also studied much on the Geas spell.”

  “There is nothing more you need to say. What is done is done,” Devlin said. True, Master Dreng had placed the loathsome Geas spell upon him, but the mage had not been the one to craft it. He had merely been doing his duty, and for that Devlin could not blame him. Any resentment he harbored was more than offset by the gift of the protection spell Master Dreng had just given him.

  Master Dreng’s lips thinned. “It is only right that you have the same knowledge I do, since you are the one bespelled.”

  After a long moment, Devlin nodded.

  “The Geas spell acts upon your will,” Master Dreng explained. “It knows no right or wrong of
its own, but it takes your own sense of justice, of righteousness you could say, and forces the Chosen One to live up to his own highest standards, without regard for mortal weaknesses.”

  How could this be? The Geas had already driven Devlin to acts that he would never have even considered before. And yet Master Dreng was saying that the Geas was not controlling Devlin, but rather giving shape to something that had lain buried inside him all this time. This he did not want to believe.

  “You must be wrong,” Devlin insisted. “What of those who have no conscience, no sense of justice? How does the Geas work on them?”

  “It doesn’t. Those that are unfit are destroyed during the Choosing Ceremony.”

  “And you have seen this happen?”

  “In the five years that I have served as Royal Mage, a dozen men and women have failed the test and been destroyed,” Master Dreng said. He looked vaguely ill.

  Devlin felt ill as well. No wonder few had believed he would survive the ceremony.

  “We say those who fail are destroyed by the wrath of the Gods,” Master Dreng said. “But it is interesting to note that the rejections began only after the Geas spell was created.”

  So it was the spell and not the power of the Gods that destroyed the unworthy. That made far more sense than believing that the Gods cared enough about the fate of the Kingdom personally to oversee the selection of the Chosen One.

  “The Geas spell has one other benefit. Its power means that no other mage can seek to bespell your will.”

  Devlin could not be bespelled because he had no will of his own. Not when it mattered. But he refused to believe that the spell was simply a manifestation of his own will. The Geas was an outside force that controlled him, no matter what Master Dreng might say.

  Though the mage had given him a clue to controlling the spell. The Geas could not be reasoned with, but if Devlin kept his mind focused, he could try to channel its energy. Thus he had done at Long Lake, when rather than succumbing to the temptation for a suicidal attack, he had managed to control the Geas long enough to form a plan that had a chance of succeeding.