Devlin's Luck (46 page)

“I expected nothing else,” Devlin said. “I will leave you to make the arrangements.”

“Wait,” Captain Drakken said. “There is still much we should discuss.”

He would not stay while his friends grieved for him as for one already dead. And there was nothing they could say, nothing they could do, that would change the outcome of the match.

“You have much to think on, not I,” said Devlin. “What happens after tomorrow morning will be your affair. And for that you will not need me.”

With that he left the room.

Captain Drakken stared angrily as the Chosen One left, though she knew her anger was as much for herself as it was for him. She should have insisted that the documents be examined as soon as Didrik had arrived, rather than delaying and giving their enemies a chance to tamper with them. Or she should have insisted that Master Dreng examine the chest, no matter what the council said. If she had been able to prove magical treachery, if she had realized that the Duke knew of Devlin’s past…

But now there was no turning back. And Devlin of Duncaer, the strongest Chosen One the Kingdom had seen for generations, was going to throw his life away. And with him went all their work, all their hopes of rallying the Kingdom in its own defense. They would never find another to take his place.

What a waste. What a stupid, awful waste. That the Chosen One should be lost merely because Duke Gerhard envied and despised his influence. If she could, she would take Devlin’s part in a heartbeat, to spare the Kingdom. She looked at the others and knew they felt the same. Yet neither Devlin nor Duke Gerhard would agree to such a substitution.

“Is there any chance he could win?” she asked Lieutenant Didrik.

“No,” Lieutenant Didrik said, his eyes sorrowful. “Devlin’s skills have grown greatly. He can best me two times out of three, and Ensign Mikkelson the same. But he is no match for a master swordsman.”

It was as she had feared. “Then he is doomed. And with him goes the last hope for the Kingdom.”

It was past midnight when Stephen knocked on the door of Solveig’s chambers. Though the hour was late, he was not surprised that Solveig opened the door at once.

“Come,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him inside.

He allowed her to guide him to a padded chair, where he collapsed in a weary heap.

Solveig’s long hair was unbound, and she wore a simple linen shirt and trousers. She looked much younger than a woman of nearly thirty summers, and for a moment Stephen was transported back to the days of his childhood, when as a young boy he had come to his oldest sister for advice and comfort.

“I was not there but I heard what happened,” Solveig said, handing him a glass of dark red wine. “There is to be a duel?”

Stephen nodded. “All is arranged,” he said. “Devlin and Duke Gerhard will face each other at the first hour past dawn, in the grand salon of arms. They will duel with swords until one yields or is killed.”

But there would be no courtly honor, no Gods-sent reprieve. Devlin would not yield. Could not. It was not in him to beg for mercy. Devlin would die, spilling his lifeblood on the sands, while his enemies jeered in triumph.

Stephen took a quick gulp of wine, hoping he could drink himself into numbness or oblivion. But as he stared at the glass, the red wine seemed too much like blood, so he set the glass down on the floor in sudden revulsion.

Solveig sat down on the arm of the chair and put her arm around his shoulders. “I am truly sorry,” she said. “He is a great man, and I know he is your friend.”

Stephen leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“He would not speak with me,” he said. After making the arrangements, Stephen had gone to Devlin’s quarters. Devlin had not even let Stephen enter, but instead made him stand in the hall as he outlined the protocol for the duel. Then he had bade Stephen good night, as if this were an ordinary night, and had firmly shut the door. Stephen had pounded and yelled, but there had been no answer. At last he had left in defeat.

Stephen could not imagine Devlin’s pain upon returning to find his wife and child slain—all that had given his life meaning destroyed in that instant. Devlin had let his grief show only once, when his voice had broken as he said the name of his murdered wife. Despite the pain Devlin had managed to survive, to avenge his family’s death, and to find a new purpose for his own life. Now this, too, was to be taken from him. And Devlin would not permit his friends to tell him they shared his sorrows.

“He should not be alone,” Stephen said.

Solveig stroked his hair, as she had done so many times before. “He is not alone. He knows he has your friendship and that of the others.”

“It is not fair,” Stephen said miserably. “We made the Chosen One, and bound his will with the Geas so he can serve us. And now he must pay with his life simply because he seeks to fulfill his duties as we commanded.”

A year ago, Stephen would have looked at Duke Gerhard and seen an honorable man, one outraged at the idea of a false Chosen One and the stain upon the Kingdom’s honor. But Stephen was older now. Wiser. Now he looked at the Duke and saw a power-hungry noble who would brook no competition. Devlin’s crime was not that of being unfit for his post. It was of challenging the Duke’s authority, and this was the sin that would cost him his life.

“Life is seldom like the pretty ballads you love,” Solveig said. “Court politics is about power, and the pursuit of justice is often compromised in the battle.”

“I know that now,” he said. In the year since he had first met the Chosen One, Stephen had learned that life could be far more terrible and wonderful than any ballad he knew. And that the true worth of a man could not be set down in song, but rather was measured both in how he acted when put to the test, and how he behaved when all was peaceful.

Devlin had taught him much. And now Stephen would learn what it was to watch a friend die. Solveig gathered him in her arms, as he closed his eyes and wept.

Twenty-six

THERE WOULD BE NO DEATH SHROUD FOR HIM. NO one to perform the ceremonies that would see him safely to the Dread Lord’s realm. No one to speak his name on the night of the dead, or to greet him kindly in his wanderings. No children would be called Devlin in his honor, to keep his memory alive.

Yet he felt no bitterness. He had come to this place to die. Instead briefly, improbably, he had found friendship. Respect from those he admired for their own courage and loyalty. And a measure of atonement for his sins as he had sought to help those who could not defend themselves.

Devlin was resigned to his death, but still there was one more service that he could perform. He had learned well the lesson of his fight with the banecats. There was much a man could do, once he had accepted the inevitability of his own death. Devlin’s life would end on the morrow, but if the Gods were kind, he would not die until he had dealt the Duke a mortal blow in return.

Devlin retired to his room and sent the nervous chambermen to fetch hot water for bathing. He washed away the dirt of travel and shaved off several days’ growth of dark beard. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was eerily calm. Donning a peasant shirt and his old frayed trousers, he took the sword from its scabbard and examined the blade carefully. He found just what he had expected. The blade was sound, free of nicks. And like all his weapons, the edge was as sharp as his skills could make it. There was no point in further honing the blade, just as there was no point in Devlin trying to learn new tactics at this last hour. Both he and the sword were as ready as they would ever be.

When Stephen came, Devlin listened attentively to the arrangements for the duel, but he brushed aside Stephen’s request to talk. He could see his friend was distressed, yet there was no comfort Devlin could offer him. His friends were angry over this turn of fate, and grieved over the surety of his death. Devlin himself did not share their grief. He had sought death for so long that to him this seemed but the final step of a long journey whose destination had long been known.

But he could not allow their grief to weaken him, to distract him from what he must do. He would need to bring all his focus, indeed his entire will, to bear if he was to succeed in taking Duke Gerhard with him to the grave.

Devlin woke from a dreamless sleep in the quiet hour before dawn. He dressed himself with great care, in a linen shirt and gray trousers, over which he fastened the gray silk tunic that was the uniform of the Chosen One. He hesitated for a moment, then slipped the ring of his office on his left hand. Wearing jewelry in a duel was folly, but it would make little difference when the outcome was fore-ordained. And it would be good to remind the Duke and the courtiers just who and what Devlin was.

He stood in the center of the room and turned around slowly, making sure that everything was in order. His transverse bow and quiver hung from pegs on the wall. Next to them hung the great axe, and on the table below were his throwing knives and the twin wrist sheaths. Inside the closed doors of the wardrobe were his neatly folded clothes, while the chest held the few personal possessions he owned. A few metalworking tools, a sharpening stone, a fire starter, and a half dozen maps from his journeys. Little enough to show for his year of service.

Devlin’s eyes lingered on the axe thoughtfully. He had no care what happened to the rest of his belongings, but the axe was a different matter.

A knock sounded.

“Enter,” Devlin called.

The door swung open, and he saw Stephen standing in the hall.

“It is time,” Stephen said. His face was haggard and his eyes red-rimmed as if he had spent a sleepless night.

Devlin nodded. He picked up the sword belt and buckled it around his waist.

“There is one service you can do for me afterward,” Devlin said.

“Name it and it is yours,” Stephen said.

“When I am dead, destroy the axe. Take it to Master Timo the smith and have him melt the steel in his forge until it is naught but a lump of metal.”

“But why?”

“The axe is cursed.” Once the axe had represented all of his skill, all of his pride in his craft. Yet even at the moment of forging, the axe and Devlin were already cursed, their destiny foretold. Was Devlin cursed because he owned the axe? Or was the axe cursed because he had forged it? Either way, it did not matter. The axe would be destroyed, lest he pass his unholy burden on to another.

Stephen’s eyes widened. “Then why do you keep it?”

“Because it is mine,” Devlin said simply. “Now come. They are waiting for us.”

As they walked through the corridors of the palace toward the arms salon, Devlin noticed that there were far more servants about than was usual for that hour. They clustered at every junction of corridors and at the foot of the staircases. They did not speak, but instead watched him pass in eerie silence.

They had come to witness his death, he realized. Such lowly ones would not be privileged to witness the duel, so they had come to see him in his last minutes. He wondered where their sympathies lay. Did they see him as a common man like themselves, one who strove to uphold justice for all? Or did they believe Duke Gerhard’s lies and come to witness the execution of a kinslayer?

Devlin and Stephen turned down the final corridor, and the minstrel walked past the door that led to the arms salon. Devlin halted, and after a few steps Stephen stopped when he realized Devlin was no longer following.

“Come. There is a room adjacent, where the fighters can wait in private until it is time for their match.”

“No,” said Devlin. He would not spend his last moments hiding. “Let us show them that I have no fear.”

He led the way into the arms salon, and reluctantly Stephen followed.

Devlin blinked as he saw that the salon was filled with richly dressed courtiers, many of whom looked to be still wearing their finery from the evening before. Scanning the crowd he saw that three sides of the square were packed with spectators, but the western side held only a few folk. Among them he recognized Captain Drakken, Lieutenant Didrik, Solveig, Lord Dalkassar, Lord Rikard, and a handful of others whom he had come to know in his months in Kingsholm. Duke Gerhard was nowhere to be seen.

The crowd parted as Devlin made his way through the gallery, toward the western end. Only one man had the courage to meet his gaze.

“Chosen One, I wish you much luck,” Master Dreng said.