“You are going nowhere. You caused a near riot yesterday, and my guards have better things to do than rescue your sorry hide. You will stay put until Festival is over, or I will deal with you personally. Understood?”
The young man flushed. “Understood.”
Captain Drakken turned her attention back to Devlin. “The Choosing Ceremony will take place tomorrow at midday. I will come for you then. But if you are not here, there is no shame.”
“I will be here.”
The Captain left, and Devlin found himself the center of attention. The soldier Lukas, a middle-aged veteran, regarded him warily, while the young man appeared fascinated.
“You are here to be Chosen?” the young man asked.
Devlin ignored him. Shrugging the pack off his shoulders, he set it down in the empty cell on his left. Then he untied his cloak and hung it on a hook. Entering the cell, he sat down on the bed and began to unlace his boots. Each movement was deliberate, requiring all of his concentration. It should have worried him, but it did not. He chalked up his weariness to the length of his journey, and to the strange sense of anticlimax he felt after having come so far, only to be greeted with less than welcome.
“Any hope of getting something to eat?” Devlin asked.
“You can go fetch something yourself, or they’ll bring a meal here round sunset,” the soldier said.
Devlin nodded. He pulled off his left boot, then his right. Those shreds of fabric around his feet had once been socks. He would have to do something about them. But not now.
“Wake me when food comes,” he said, stretching out on the cot. After weeks of sleeping in fields and barns, his body eased itself into the welcome softness. By habit his right hand rested on the dagger he wore at his side.
“But wait. You can’t go to sleep. Not now. It’s midday. And I have so many questions to ask you,” the young man said.
Devlin closed his eyes, and then his ears. The young man’s voice was a distant hum, and then there was nothing at all.
When he woke, sunlight was streaming through the narrow slit window high up in the wall, crossing the small cell and bouncing off the wooden door. The door was closed, but through it he could hear the sound of voices. Devlin sat up, rubbing the last of sleep out of his eyes. A quick check showed that he still had all his weapons. His pack appeared undisturbed, which meant either they trusted him to a foolish degree, or whoever had searched his belongings was an expert at his job.
His boots were on the floor where he had dropped them earlier. He tried not to look too closely at his feet as he forced them back into his boots. Even his blisters had blisters.
Devlin rose and went to the door. He did not remember shutting it earlier. But it opened freely at his touch.
The veteran soldier and young man were seated at the table in the common room, along with another soldier whom he had not seen before. The young man had his back to Devlin, and was strumming a lute.
The veteran soldier turned as Devlin left the cell. “Good morrow,” he said.
“And you,” Devlin said courteously.
The young man put down his lute and turned to face Devlin. “Good morrow. I’ve been waiting for hours for you to waken. You scarce said two words at supper last night, and then you seemed like to sleep for a thousand years. I thought you were sick or dying, but Sergeant Lukas here said you were simply tired and I should not disturb you.”
Devlin kept his face still. He did not remember anything of yesterday, after he had reached the guardhouse. And yet according to the minstrel, he had risen and supped, without ever truly waking. He must have pushed himself harder than he knew to have reached such a dangerous point of exhaustion. Worse yet, he had not realized it at the time. Such carelessness was foreign to his nature.
He looked around the room. There was a pot for kava by the fire. Devlin cocked his head in that direction.
“Help yourself,” Lukas said.
Devlin selected a pewter mug from the shelf next to the fire and poured himself kava. Then he crossed to the table. The two soldiers had both chosen to sit facing the door. It was where he would have sat as well, but instead he compromised, picking a seat opposite the young man, which allowed him to split his attention between his companions and the doorway.
Devlin sipped the hot drink. There was an awkward silence, but he felt no inclination to break it. He wondered how long it would be till Captain Drakken came to fetch him.
There was a basket of breads and fruit at the far end of the table. The second soldier reached out and pushed it toward him.
“I thank you,” Devlin said. He took a roll in one hand, and began to eat, alternating bites of the sweet bread with sips of kava.
Lukas eyed him appraisingly. “I told young Stephen here that you had the manners of an old campaigner. Sleep when you can, eat when you can, and no complaining.”
Devlin grunted noncommittally.
“Were you a soldier?” the young man asked.
“No.”
Devlin fixed the young man with his best glare, hoping to discourage any conversation. But the young man was impervious.
“I am Stephen of Esker, a minstrel,” the young man said. “It must be the grace of Kanjti that you came here yesterday. I am writing a ballad about the Chosen, which is sure to be my greatest work.”
Lukas snorted. “It was no good fortune that got you stuck here. It was that riot you caused with your last song.”
The young minstrel waved his hand. “Simply a slight setback. I did not realize that the yokels were unable to appreciate the subtleties of my interpretation of the legend of Queen Hoth.”
“Hasn’t been a Chosen One in nearly a year now,” the second guard commented. “Not since that last one followed the witch Alfrida into a swamp and was eaten by a giant serpent.”
“No, she was the one before. The last Chosen was torn apart by demon wolves,” Stephen said.
“Right. Demon wolves it was,” the second guard said. “He was a master of the blade, and yet he lasted all of a month. Wonder how long a peasant will last?”
Devlin did not reply. He knew the soldier was simply trying to provoke him. But he could not be provoked, for he did not care what they thought of him.
“You never gave us your name,” Stephen said.
“Devlin. Devlin Stonehand.” It was near enough to his own name that he had grown used to it in these last months.
The minstrel took a small leather-bound journal from his pocket, and a writing stylus. “Devlin Stonehand,” he repeated. “From Duncaer?”
“Yes.” It would be foolish to try and deny his origin, not with every word he spoke betraying his breeding.
“Good. Not that I’ll use your name. The Chosen are always getting killed off before we can finish a song. Nowadays we just call them all the Chosen, to make it simpler. Not that much rhymes with Chosen. Except perhaps frozen, but that’s not all that common either….” The minstrel’s voice trailed off as he contemplated the difficulties of his profession.
Jorskians believed that the Chosen Ones were summoned by the Gods to service, and blessed by the Gods with extraordinary strength and courage. There were many songs about the Chosen Ones from the days of their glory, but few songs had been written in the hundred years since the passing of Donalt the Wise. Since his time men had diminished, or the dangers they faced had grown in stature. Whatever the reason, in these dark days the position of Chosen One had become nearly impossible to fill. Those that volunteered were invariably slaughtered within a few months of assuming their post.
In desperation the King had taken to offering large bonuses for anyone who would take the oath. Even that tempted fewer and fewer men these days. What use had a man for golden coins when he would not live long enough to spend them?
Devlin knew exactly what he would do with the promised treasure. And he had seen too much in these past months to be afraid of any foe, mortal or demon. If the people of Jorsk wanted to pay someone to play hero, then that was e
xactly what they would get.
Two
CAPTAIN DRAKKEN CAME FOR HIM AT MIDDAY. “You’re still here,” she said, her blunt features showing surprise.
“I said I would be.”
“Yes, you did. I did not get your name yesterday.”
“Devlin. Devlin Stonehand.”
She looked him over skeptically. He did not blame her for her doubts. He had shaved and put on the cleaner of his two shirts, but it would take a long bath and a new wardrobe to make him even barely presentable.
“You are a farmer?” Her tone was courteous, but the word she used for farmer could also be used to mean the lowest of the low.
“Once.” He did not elaborate. It was his future he had come to sell. These folk had no right to his past.
“I don’t think we’ve ever had a farmer come for Chosen before. Soldiers, mercenaries, younger sons and daughters of the nobles. But not a farmer.”
“There’s never been a Chosen One from Duncaer province either,” the minstrel Stephen said helpfully. “Devlin will be a first in many ways.”
“I can take care of myself,” he said, answering her unspoken question.
The Captain’s face reflected her doubts. “If you become the Chosen One, you will have to do more than defend yourself.”
If he was Chosen, he would have to risk his life again and again, until he came upon an enemy he could not defeat. “I have heard the last Chosen One was an expert swordsman, and yet he survived for barely a month. Leave it to the Gods to decide if my service is acceptable.” His eyes bore into hers, refusing to back down.
“You have a sharp tongue for a farmer. But you are right. It is not for me to decide. Come and we will get this done with.”
“What about me?” Stephen asked.
“Festival is over. You are free to go. But if you cause any more trouble, I will ban you from Kingsholm.”
He nodded cheerfully. “There will be no trouble. I have learned my lesson. No more political songs. From now on I will stick to the heroic ballads.”
Stephen followed as Captain Drakken led Devlin through the palace grounds to a small white stone temple. Frescoes over the entrance indicated that this was a royal temple, dedicated not to one God, but to all seven.
As they entered he saw two people inside, standing next to a stone altar. One wore the brown robes of a priest. The other was a lean man, just past his youth, dressed in wide trousers and short jacket in a style that Devlin had never seen before. His long brown hair hung in tangled locks, giving him an exotic appearance. Next to the two men was an altar holding a pair of candles, a silver sword, and a small wooden box.
Inside the temple it was strangely cold, despite the heat of the summer day outside. Yet Devlin felt beads of sweat forming on his brow, as the inevitability of what he was doing came home.
“You can still leave now,” Captain Drakken said. “Leave and return to your family. There are better things to do with your life than throw it away.”
For a moment he was tempted, but the mention of family washed away all his doubts. The Captain was wrong. He had nothing to return to, and no better task for his life. Indeed, if he were killed during the Choosing Ceremony, there were none who would regret his death.
The priest paid him no attention, but the other man looked amused as he caught sight of Devlin. “This is the new Chosen? Captain, you got me out of bed for this?”
Now that they were closer Devlin could see that the man’s face was pale, his eyes were bloodshot, his trousers were wrinkled, and there was a dark stain on the front of his jacket. He had the appearance of one rudely torn from his revelries.
“It’s not my fault if you can’t hold your liquor. The sooner this is over with, the sooner you can crawl back into your bed,” Captain Drakken said.
Devlin wondered if such discourtesy was typical of Jorsk. After all, he had walked over two hundred leagues to offer his life to protect their Kingdom. Surely he was entitled to some respect. But instead they treated him as if he were an impoverished stranger, come to beg at their table.
“Brother Arni, Master Mage Dreng, this is Devlin Stonehand of Duncaer,” Captain Drakken said, by way of introduction.
The priest nodded and then turned away. His back was to Devlin as he opened the small wooden box and began taking out objects, laying them on the altar. He arranged the items, then reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a small stone. Touching the stone to the first candle, he recited a brief prayer. The candle sprang alight.
Despite himself Devlin was impressed. He had never seen a firestone before. Only the wealthiest in Duncaer could afford them. Yet the priest treated it as if it was nothing, repeating the trick with the second candle, then placing the stone back in his pocket.
The priest turned back to face Devlin. “You understand that there are only two choices? Either the Gods accept your service as Chosen One, or you will be struck dead for your impertinence.”
“I understand.”
“I wager on dead myself,” the mage said. “Anyone care to take me up on it? Say a silver latt?”
The minstrel Stephen spoke up. “I will,” he said.
“But what do you have that is worth a silver latt?”
“I will wager my lute,” Stephen said, his face flushed.
Master Dreng smiled mockingly. “Done. Your lute against my silver.”
It was not a good bet. Devlin himself would not have taken it. He knew the Gods hated him. The question was, would they kill him outright? Or decide to prolong his suffering by letting him live as the new Chosen One?
He did not fear death. Haakon, the Lord of Death, had been close to him many times in these last months, but each time he had refused to take Devlin. No, if there was anything he feared it was the Geas attached to the Choosing Ceremony. Once the oath was sworn, the Geas would ensure that Devlin could not betray his service. In effect he would surrender his own will to that of the Gods. It was a prospect that would terrify a sane man, but Devlin was no longer certain he was quite sane.
At last everything was arranged to the priest’s satisfaction. “You, sir, come stand here, in the circle, and place both hands on the altar.”
Devlin stepped forward and did as he was told. The priest circled the altar so he stood facing him. The Captain moved to stand on his right side and the mage on his left.
“Captain Drakken is here as the King’s representative, and Master Dreng will cast the binding spell,” the priest explained. He had the air of a man who had done the same chore so often that he was simply mouthing the words. “If the Gods accept you as the new Chosen One, you will receive pardon for any crimes you have committed. But you must confess them now, in the presence of these witnesses.”
“I have done nothing that requires your pardon.”
The priest looked doubtful, but continued his explanation. “You will need to dedicate your service by your personal God. I assume you are a servant of Lady Sonja?”
“No.” Cerrie had been a follower of Sonja, until the War Goddess had betrayed her. He would not swear by false Sonja.
“Very well, then Lady Teá.”
“No.” Teá was the mother Goddess, and known as the patroness of those who worked the land. She, too, had betrayed them.
The priest appeared confused. “Then who? The spell is not binding unless you invoke the protection of one of the Gods.”
From the corner of his eye, Devlin saw the minstrel Stephen, and remembered that only that morning the minstrel had invoked the name of Kanjti.
Kanjti. The God of luck. A God with no temples or priests. Some called him the bastard god, the only one of the seven whose origin was a subject for hot debate. A God with no family for a man who had none. It was a fitting choice.
“Kanjti,” he declared.
The priest looked over at Master Dreng.
“Kanjti will work as well as any,” the mage confirmed. “Just give him the sword, and we can get this over with.”
The priest
picked up the sword from the altar. “Hold this between both hands, raised to the heavens,” he instructed. “And repeat the oath of service.”
The sword was clearly the work of a master smith. Long and tapered in the old style, it had a hilt of ebon, wrapped in silver wire. The blade shimmered in the candlelight, revealing a pattern of runes carved on one side.
Devlin accepted the sword from the priest with his left hand. It was an awkward grip, and as he tried to switch the sword to his right hand he fumbled and dropped it. The sword struck the marble floor with the ringing clang of steel upon stone.
He picked up the sword, suddenly curious. He examined the length of the blade, noting that the metal had the faint shimmering appearance that belonged to the finest steel. But somehow it did not feel right.
He was aware that the others were regarding him with a mixture of impatience and dismay, but he refused to be hurried. He ran his thumb along the edge of the sword, exerting just enough pressure to keep from drawing blood. Then he pulled his dagger out with his left hand, and struck the pommel of the dagger against the blade of the sword.
He heard it again, the faint note of wrongness. He replaced his dagger and shook his head uneasily. Should he speak up and risk revealing more of himself? Or keep silent as payment for the low regard in which they held him?
He struggled with his conscience for a moment, but in the end he could not keep silent. Honor was all he had left. “I will swear no oath on this blade,” he said, placing it on the altar so that half its length extended over the edge.
“Why won’t you use the sword? You’ve come a long way to change your mind now,” Captain Drakken observed.
“Because any oath sworn on this blade would be as false as the blade itself.” He placed his left hand on the hilt of the sword, holding it steady against the altar. Then he made his right hand into a fist and raised it over his head.
His fist came crashing down. The blade broke with a sickening crack.
Devlin's Luck Page 2
