Devlin's Luck (28 page)

Devlin’s face was carefully expressionless. “They did not send for the Chosen One.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It is not their way.”

Interesting that he referred to the Caerfolk as
they
and not
us
. Was this a sign that he considered himself a Jorskian now? Or was there something else he was trying to hide?

She fixed her gaze on her boot, which she swung idly, observing Devlin from the corner of her eye.

“You are correct. They did not send for the Chosen. It seems one of their own, a farmer, pursued the creatures into the forest and eventually hunted them down. Still, for all his efforts, the settlements were abandoned.”

Her efforts proved for naught. The Chosen One showed no reaction to her words. And yet she was still convinced that he was the one in the tale. Only a giant leopard or other great cat could have inflicted those scars.

She lifted her head. “Perhaps there is something you can add to this tale?”

“How should I know aught of this farmer? I was a metalsmith, as you well know,” the Chosen One replied.

She ground her teeth in frustration. She could not accuse him of being a liar. And yet she had the sense that he was not telling her the full truth.

But which truth was he hiding? The traders and couriers had brought back conflicting versions of this tale. One version said that the farmer had died while attempting to avenge his family. Another said that all present had been killed by the banecats’strike, with none left to avenge them.

And an even more chilling version had come to light, one that said the farmer had killed his own family, then been exiled to the forest for his crimes. There he had encountered the banecats, who recognized in him a kindred spirit and joined with him as he returned to take his vengeance on those who had exiled him. This she did not want to believe.

But what was Devlin hiding? What past sins were buried under his half-truths and evasions? Could it be, as some in the court whispered, that he was a traitor, in the pay of their enemies? Yet if so, how had he managed to circumvent the protections of the Choosing Ceremony?

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 join 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.