Devlin's Luck (50 page)

“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 had 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.

“Where do we start?” Lieutenant Didrik asked.

Captain Drakken went over to the northern wall. She leaned forward, peering at the pictures as she walked down along the line. Then she straightened up. “Here,” she said. Devlin came over, with Lieutenant Didrik and Stephen following. Captain Drakken pointed to a medium-sized portrait. “Donalt the Wise.”

Donalt, often called the last of the great Chosen Ones, was shown as a man in his middle years, with long blond hair done in a warrior’s braid. His features were harsh, and his blue eyes stared directly forward, as if they could see into the viewer’s soul. Across his back he wore a baldric. Only the hilt of the sword was visible above his shoulder.

It couldn’t be. And yet …

Devlin swallowed hard. “Is there a better picture of the sword?”

“My age is beginning to tell, for I had remembered this differently,” Captain Drakken said. “Still, there must be another portrait in here. We should keep looking.”

They split apart, one to each of the four walls. Devlin took the southern wall, the one furthest from the portrait of Donalt. His eyes scanned the pictures, but he was not really seeing them. It could not be, he told himself. His mind was playing tricks.

He craned his neck upwards, and then he saw it. A young woman who bore an unmistakable resemblance to Donalt held the sword extended in front of her as she fought off an armored warrior. Behind her, crouching next to the uncertain shelter of a boulder, was a young boy. The artist had been truly gifted, for he had managed to capture not only the boy’s fear but also a sense of the woman’s fierce determination. One knew that she looked her own death in the face, and that she was not afraid.

But any admiration for the artist’s skill was lost when Devlin contemplated the Sword of Light, which had been depicted with equal skill. It was clearly a long sword, with a tapering blade. The grip was unusual, for instead of a single curved crossbar there was a double guard of two straight bars, one longer than the other. And in the pommel was set a stone that shone with red fire.

“The stone is wrong. It should be dark crimson, so dark it seems nearly black,” Devlin whispered, though a part of him felt like screaming.

“It is dark,” Stephen said, and Devlin jumped. He had not realized that the others had joined him. “The stone glows when the sword is wielded in battle by the Chosen One,” Stephen explained.

But Captain Drakken had understood what Stephen had not. “How do you know of the stone’s appearance?”

Devlin took a step back from the wall, and then another, although his eyes did not leave the painting.

“Because I have held that sword in my hands.” He tasted bile and for a brief moment he fought the urge to vomit. But there was no denying the truth of what he saw, or of what he knew.

“How is that possible?” Captain Drakken asked.

Devlin did not answer. He turned on his heel and began to walk away. He needed to get out of here. Quickly. Before he gave in to the urge to smash something.

But he could not flee fast enough to escape his friends. Stephen caught up with him and grabbed his sleeve. “You have seen it? You know where it is?”

Devlin shook his arm free. “The sword was lost at Ynnis, was it not?”

Stephen nodded. “During the final hours of the siege, when Lord Saemund was killed.”

“During the massacre,” Devlin corrected. His people had their own memories of Ynnis, and none of them were kind to the Jorskians. Lord Saemund may have been the Chosen One, but he deserved to suffer in the Dread Lord’s realm for all eternity for what his troops had done. Men, women, and even children had been slaughtered, and those not killed by the soldiers perished in the flames as the army set the city to the torch. Those who survived were too few to bury the dead, and to this day Ynnis remained a ruin, inhabited only by her restless ghosts.

Still, Ynnis had been a small city, and the destruction there had not befallen the rest of Duncaer. Most Caerfolk, including Devlin, had done their best to put the siege from their minds. The war was long over, and there was no sense in brooding about the past.

But now the past had come back to haunt them.

Devlin ran his left hand through his hair, trying to think of a way to explain. “When I was a boy, my parents apprenticed me to Master Roric, a metalsmith. Like my parents, Master Roric was a survivor of the massacre at Ynnis.”

“You say massacre, but that is not how it is recorded,” Captain Drakken said.

“I care not what tales you tell, or what the minstrel sings,” Devlin said, his clipped tones revealing his anger. “My parents were both children who were lucky to survive, for all their near kin perished on that day.”