Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  The King hung his head, as if he had already resigned himself to defeat.

  “That is the sound of folly,” Devlin said harshly, as if he were reprimanding one of his troops. The King had been coddled enough. It was time for plain speaking.

  King Olafur raised his head.

  “No man knows what he can do until he is put to the test, and there is no one who knows that better than I. If a simple man can become Chosen One, then surely one of your royal blood can find the strength within him to lead his people in their time of need.”

  Hope warred with doubt on the King’s features. “But what if I fail?”

  “Far better to try and fail than not to try at all. Be bold. Lead. You will make mistakes, but you will learn from them. The only true failure is in not trying.”

  King Olafur rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Harsh words, but better counsel than I have heard in a long time.”

  “I live to serve,” Devlin said. It was a commonly uttered platitude, yet in Devlin’s mouth it was the simple truth.

  The King nodded slowly. “If I am to lead as my fathers before me, then it is time we returned to their ways. For centuries, the Chosen One was also the General of the Army, who led the defense of our realm in times of peril.”

  Devlin’s heart sank. So the King intended to replace him after all.

  “But Your Majesty—” he began.

  “I will not be gainsaid. You are the only one I can trust, and you have proven your loyalty to the Kingdom. I will name you councilor and General of the Army.”

  “Me?” He had barely managed to lead his force of thirty on the expedition to Korinth, and now he was to lead thousands? It was unthinkable. And yet…

  “The council will not like this,” Devlin said. Many of the councilors already felt he had too much power. What would they think now that he was their equal?

  “The needs of the Kingdom come first. The army needs a General, and I need someone I can trust. My councilors will accept you or they will be replaced,” King Olafur replied. His voice was firm, and for the first time since Devlin had known him, the King appeared decisive.

  As General of the Army, Devlin would have the power to ensure that the Kingdom was ready to meet its foes, whoever they might be. And as councilor, he could influence the King and council to the path of reason. It was all he and his friends had hoped for, when they had fought so hard for change. He was tempted to accept, but a small voice within him urged caution.

  “You honor me greatly with your trust,” Devlin said. “But think well before you make this decision. I am a man accustomed to plain speaking, and I will not change simply because you name me councilor.”

  “As long as you speak honestly, I will be well served.”

  “And I will insist on sending the Royal Army to Korinth. Without delay.” His mind was already planning the expedition. Mikkelson could lead the relief forces, given a suitable promotion. He had already proven his loyalty; it was time to give him a rank to match his capabilities.

  “I expected nothing else.”

  Devlin rose to his feet. “Then I accept this honor,” he said, extending his left hand in the clasp of friendship. “And I swear I will serve you faithfully. Between us we will make this Kingdom strong and safe once more.”

  After a moment of hesitation, King Olafur took Devlin’s hand in his own. “Now I see why your followers love you,” he said. “You have given me hope, something I have not felt in a long time.”

  “I will give you more than hope,” Devlin vowed. “I will give you victory.”

  About the Author

  PATRICIA BRAY inherited her love of books from her parents, both of whom were fine storytellers in the Irish tradition. She has always enjoyed spinning tales, and turned to writing as a chance to share her stories with a wider audience. Patricia holds a master’s degree in Information Technology, and combines her writing with a full-time career as an I/T Project Manager. She resides in upstate New York, where she is currently at work on the next volume in The Sword of Change series. For more information on her books visit her Web site at www.sff.net/people/patriciabray.

  Don’t miss the next exciting installment in The Sword of Change

  Devlin’s Honor

  Available from Bantam Books

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  DEVLIN OF DUNCAER, CHOSEN ONE OF THE GODS, Defender of the Realm, Personal Champion of King Olafur, Royal Councilor, and General of the Royal Army, muttered to himself as he strode through the corridors of the palace. The few folk who saw him took one look at his grim face and discovered urgent business elsewhere. It was not just his appearance that gave them pause, though his green eyes and black hair—now streaked with white—marked him as a stranger here: the first of the Caerfolk to enter into the service of their conquerors. Rather it was his reputation they fled, for it was well known that the Chosen One had little patience for fools who troubled him, and his power made him an enemy few wished to have.

  As Devlin reached the chambers that served as his offices, the guard on duty took one look at his face and swiftly opened the door, forgoing the formal salute. Devlin slammed the door shut behind him.

  Lieutenant Didrik looked up from his papers. “The council meeting went as we expected?”

  Nearly four months ago, when Devlin was named General of the Army, Lieutenant Didrik had been detached from the City Guard to serve as Devlin’s aide. Some thought the lieutenant too young for the task, but his age was offset by his proven loyalty and friendship. And Lieutenant Didrik knew Devlin well enough to recognize when he was truly angry and when he was merely frustrated, as now.

  “The council sits and talks and does nothing,” Devlin said, unbuttoning the stiff collar of his court uniform. “And the folk in the palace flee like frightened sheep whenever they catch a glimpse of me.”

  Lieutenant Didrik nodded. “It would be easier to convince them you were tame if you did not growl.”

  “I do not growl.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Devlin gave a wordless snarl and began to pace the small confines of the outer office. Lieutenant Didrik remained seated, his eyes following Devlin’s restless movements.

  Devlin paced in silence for a moment as he tried to shake off the frustration of that afternoon’s council session. Four hours, and little enough to show for it. He was not made for such. In the past he had labored as a metalsmith and a farmer. Both were hard trades, but each carried the reward of his being able to see the fruits of his labors. Now the fates had conspired to turn Devlin into a politician. No one knew better than he how ill-suited he was for the task. Court politics was about compromises and alliances, jockeying for influence and trading favors. It took skill to navigate the treacherous waters of the court, and time to get anything accomplished. Time they did not have.

  Worse, Devlin’s voice was but one of sixteen, and no matter whether he whispered or shouted, he could not bend the council to his will. Instead he had to reason, cajole, flatter and bargain, and try to be content with the smallest of victories.

  Such as the victory he had achieved today. “There is some news,” he said, dropping into a wooden chair across from Lieutenant Didrik’s desk. “The council approved the proposal for recruiting trained armsmen. Word is to be sent to all the provinces at once. With luck we should have a hundred before the snows, and perhaps a thousand by springtime.”

  Lieutenant Didrik leaned back and smiled. “But that is excellent news. Why did you not say so at once?”

  “Because it is a victory, but at a cost. I had to agree not to urge the King to train the common folk who live in the danger zones,” Devlin said, running the fingers of his good hand through his short-cropped hair. He was still not convinced that he had done the right thing, and yet even those councilors who normally supported him had been united in their opposition to his proposal. To Devlin it was simple logic: make use of the people who had the most to lose in an invasion, teach them to be effective fighters rather than see th
em slaughtered.

  However the councilors’ concerns were not for the present dangers but for their future power. A peasantry that was trained in the arts of warfare would be far harder to control. The common folk might even take it into their heads to rise up against those they perceived as unjust. Devlin acknowledged the risk but argued that those who ruled wisely had nothing to fear. His words had fallen on deaf ears.

  “Perhaps there will be no need. Since Major Mikkelson and his troops repelled the landing force in Korinth, there has been little trouble along the borders. It may be that the worst is over,” Lieutenant Didrik said.

  Devlin shook his head. “I do not believe our enemies will give up so easily.”

  They were still not even sure who their true enemy was. The invaders in Korinth had been a mercenary troop, in the pay of someone whom they could not even name. It was only chance that had led Devlin to discover the plot in time to repel the invasion. The Royal Army had made short work of the would-be invaders, but Devlin knew better than to suppose that this was the end of the threat.

  Yet where would the enemy attack next? Devlin and his advisors had racked their brains trying to divine the strategy behind the enemy’s seemingly random attacks. Without knowing whom they were facing, they were reduced to guessing.

  “The armsmen will help,” Lieutenant Didrik said.

  “Aye. Draw up a list of those provinces most in need and a plan to allocate the armsmen. I will want to see it tomorrow.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The council sessions wearied him in a way that hard labor never had, for it was an exhaustion born of frustration and a sense of his own inadequacies. “Anyone would make a better councilor than I.”

  “Do not speak such folly,” Lieutenant Didrik said. “Without you, the soldiers would have sat idly in their garrison rather than meeting the invaders on the shores of Korinth. And you were the one who sent the Royal Army out to patrol the highways and to survey the border fortifications.”

  Comforting words. But such actions were only a fraction of what Devlin had hoped to accomplish when he had accepted this position. Then he had been sure that with the King’s backing he could set the Kingdom to rights. But he had not counted on the numbing effects of court politics, nor that his influence would wane as memories of his heroism faded.

  Now he was left to struggle as best he could. A lesser man might have given up hope, but Devlin was the Chosen One, bound by Geas to serve the Kingdom as long as breath remained in his body. He could not conceive of surrender or of giving up. He would not rest until he had fulfilled his promise and made this Kingdom safe.

  “Then we are agreed. The armsmen will be used to reinforce the border with Nerikaat,” Devlin said, leaning over the map and tapping the northwestern corner of the Kingdom with one finger. “The southern provinces will have to wait until the next wave of reinforcements in the spring.”

  He looked up from the maps spread over his work table.

  “Agreed,” Captain Drakken said. Lieutenant Didrik merely nodded.

  Devlin began rolling up the map. “Lieutenant, I will need to inform the senior army commanders of my decision. Send a message and ask that they meet with me on the morrow. Captain Drakken, I thank you for the courtesy of your time and counsel.”

  Captain Drakken dipped her head, in the show of respect between friends or equals. “I am at your service.”

  “And for that I am grateful.”

  Strictly speaking, as the commander of the City Guard, Captain Drakken was concerned with security for the palace and maintaining order within the city. The defense of the realm and disposition of provincial armsmen was more properly a matter for the Royal Army. But Devlin could count on his remaining fingers the number of folk in Jorsk that he could trust to give him honest advice, and only one of these was a member of the Royal Army. And Major Mikkelson was far from here, having been dispatched to lead the defense of the coastal province of Korinth.

  Thus Devlin had become accustomed to consulting Captain Drakken, taking full advantage of her more than quarter century of experience. Once he had determined his course of action, he then informed the Royal Army officers of his decisions, allowing him to appear a decisive leader. Only he, Lieutenant Didrik, and Captain Drakken knew this for the hollow pretense it was.

  He heard the sound of the outer door opening, and then footsteps, as a voice called “Devlin?”

  “We are in here,” he replied.

  Stephen paused in the doorway. “I do not wish to interrupt…”

  “No, we have just finished our deliberations. And as I have not seen you in some time, it would be poor courtesy to turn you away.”

  Stephen was the first friend Devlin had made in this strange place, though it had taken him time to acknowledge that friendship and to accept its burden. Stephen had shared many of Devlin’s adventures, but in these past months they had seen little of each other. Devlin had been consumed with his new responsibilities, and Stephen had made it plain that he wished to pursue his music rather than be caught up in the games of the court.

  Yet somehow the court must have found Stephen, for there was no other reason for him to look so unhappy, or to have sought Devlin out in his offices rather than his private quarters.

  Captain Drakken glanced at Stephen, then back at Devlin. “I will leave you now.”

  “No,” Stephen said. “You and Lieutenant Didrik will want to hear this as well.”

  Devlin perched on the corner of his desk, wondering what had brought Stephen here. He nodded encouragingly.

  “I played last night for a wine merchant, Soren Tyrvald.”

  “I know of him,” Captain Drakken interjected. “He has a reputation for shrewd dealing. Shrewd, but honest.”

  Stephen nodded, his narrow face pale. “A respected merchant, not one to get himself involved in political schemes. Or so I would have said before last night.”

  “And now?” Devlin prompted.

  “Last night Soren drew me aside for private speech. He claims to have heard rumors that certain nobles are objecting to your claim to be the Chosen One. That if you were the true Chosen One, the Gods would have given you the Sword of Light.”

  “Is that all?” Devlin asked.

  “Merchant Tyrvald asked me to make sure you knew of this rumor, and that it was likely an attempt to diminish your influence with the commoners,” Stephen said. His shoulders slumped, as if he had given up some great burden.

  Devlin could see that Stephen felt used, but his message was hardly unexpected. “I have heard this tale before,” Devlin said. “Over a week ago it became clear that there was some new rumor circulating through the court. It took only a day before a helpful soul felt compelled to tell me what was being said.”

  Captain Drakken rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “It is a clever ploy, I will grant you that. At the very least, it may cast doubt on your stature. At best, they may succeed in convincing the King to have you search for the sword.”

  “Thus removing me from the court, and from the deliberations of the King’s Council,” Devlin added. He had expected this rumor to die out, but instead it seemed to be growing.

  At least there was one mercy. Though he had not voiced it aloud, Devlin was convinced that those who plotted against him had yet another goal in spreading this rumor. They hoped that the Geas which bound him would compel Devlin to seek out the Sword of Light, whether he wished to or not. Some could have argued that such was his duty as Chosen One. But this time the Gods were merciful, and the Geas had not stirred from where it slept at the back of his mind.

  “And how do they expect me to search for this sword?” Devlin asked, trying for a mocking tone. “There must have been dozens of copies forged over the years.”

  “There are no copies,” Stephen said. “There was only one Sword of Light. When Lord Saemund perished and the sword was lost, they forged a new sword for the next Chosen One. The armorer felt it would be impious to make a copy, since the Sword of Light h
ad been forged by a son of Egil.”

  Devlin snorted in disgust. “They say such things of all great swords. Why not claim the Forge God himself made it?”

  “It is what is said,” Stephen insisted.

  Devlin forbore to argue. Stephen’s passion had been the lore of the past Chosen Ones, and he knew more of their history than any other in the Kingdom. If Devlin objected, Stephen might feel compelled to share more of the sword’s supposed history. There might even be a song or two of its forging, which Devlin was in no mood to hear.

  Still, the part of Devlin that had once been a metalsmith was intrigued. “Are there any descriptions or drawings of this sword?” he asked.

  “There is a hall of portraits, little visited now, but in this hall there is a portrait of Donalt the Wise. And I seem to recall he is holding the Sword of Light,” Captain Drakken said.

  “Can you guide us there?” Devlin asked.

  “Of course.”

  Captain Drakken led them from the western wing where Devlin had his offices, to the older central block of the palace. The hallways grew progressively narrower and the stones beneath their feet more worn as they made their way up to the fourth level. They traveled down a corridor with rooms branching off either side. Through the open doorways Devlin glimpsed marble sculptures, a room filled with decorative porcelains, and another room that held boxes or perhaps furniture hidden beneath white shrouds.

  At the end of the corridor an archway led into a long room that ran the full two-hundred-foot length of the tower. Light streamed in from windows set high up on the three exterior walls. Devlin paused. The wall before him was covered with paintings of various sizes and styles, hung from high above down to the very floor. He turned around slowly and saw that the other three walls were equally covered. A battle scene with life-size figures hung next to a jumbled collection of small portraits. There were gilt frames, tarnished silver frames, and those of plain wood, and the mix of subjects was equally diverse.