“I thank you for your kindness, but I must refuse. There are some things a man must do for himself. If you will not reconsider, I will look for another.” In a city this size, he was sure to find at least one smith who would have fewer scruples about lending his tools to a stranger. Devlin reclaimed his staff and turned to leave.
“Wait,” the smith called.
Devlin stopped and turned back. The smith bore a faint frown as he regarded him. “As long as you are here, you can take a look at something.”
He moved over to the workbench at the far corner, and motioned Devlin to join him. A copper armband lay on the workbench. Favored by soldiers as a luck token, this armband was marred by a crack that split it nearly in two.
“The owner offered me twice its value if I could fix it. I can’t, but then steel is my specialty. If you can fix it, then I’d consider lending you a forge and some tools.”
Devlin picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “Old work, this,” he said. It was an elegant piece, showing a woodland scene in exquisite detail. The crack ran right through the central figure of a deer leaping over a stream. A border done in the old trefoil style ran along the top and bottom of the piece, framing the design. He guessed this piece had been made thirty or forty years ago, most likely in Duncaer. In a country where steel was rare, the Caer smiths had developed the art of working with copper to a high degree. Devlin himself had made dozens of similar pieces, before he had given up the craft to join his brother in the New Settlements.
“If I had my own tools, and a decent grade of mountain copper …” Devlin mused. “No, even then the chances are that I would destroy it entirely. You’d best tell the owner that it is beyond repair.” Reluctantly he placed the armband back on the workbench.
The smith nodded in apparent agreement. “That is what I thought. It takes a good man to know when a job is beyond him, and an honest one to admit it. Here, my apprentice is gone for the day. You can use his bench and tools for whatever it is that you are so desperate to do.”
His sudden agreement caught Devlin by surprise. “I thank you,” he said.
Master Timo showed him the bench he was to use, then returned to his own work. Placing his pack on the floor, Devlin reached in, withdrew the axe head, and laid it on the bench. Then he set the staff beside it. The staff was black oak from the hills of Duncaer. It had withstood the long journey far better than Devlin himself. Now it would serve as the new helve.
First he trimmed the staff to the correct length. Then he used a chisel and awl to set the holes for the rivets. Taking a bar of copper the length of his hand, he heated it in the fire, then hammered it into a cylinder on the anvil. He then split the cylinder in two, forming the rivets. While they were still hot, he measured them against the holes he had made, and was pleased to see that they were a perfect match.
Now came the tricky part. If not done correctly, the helve would shatter and he would have to start again with a new piece of wood. Carefully he placed the butt of the helve in the vise, then tightened it until it held firm. Then he lifted the axe head with the tongs and brought it to the fire. He held the shank of the blade above the edge of the fire bed, knowing that too much heat would ruin the temper of the blade. Just as the socket began to glow, he removed it from the fire. Then he turned and aligned the axe head over the top end of the helve. It slipped down the width of two fingers. Using the tongs in his left hand to hold it steady, he began to tap the top of the axe head with the hammer in his right. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the axe head was forced onto the helve.
When he could see the top of the helve through the socket, he relinquished his tongs. But he kept hammering, checking the alignment with every blow, until the holes in the axe head had perfectly aligned with those he had drilled into the helve.
Unclamping the helve from the vise, he positioned the axe so that its head protruded over the anvil. He tossed the copper rivets into an iron cup, then set the cup in the fire bed. A few moments later the rivets were brightly glowing. Exchanging the large tongs for a smaller set, he pulled the iron cup from the fire bed, then grasped the first of the rivets. Aligning it over the hole, he tapped it into the socket with one blow. He then did the same with the second.
The rivets were just slightly longer than the width of the socket. With a few quick blows on first one side, then the other, he capped off the rivets at each end, completing the weld. As he finished, the metal had already cooled to the point where it no longer glowed with heat. He turned the axe over in his hands. The rivets appeared perfect, although he would need to test the axe to be sure. And last time it had been not the axe, nor the rivets, but the helve itself that had failed him.
Still it was done. He hefted the axe, trying to see it only as a weapon, once broken, now made whole again. But he could not, for the axe was bound up with his life. Seeing it, he could not help but remember the pride he had felt when first he forged the axe head, and set the blade on a helve. But that pride was overshadowed by the memory of all that had happened since that day, and of all that he had lost.
He stared at it, fighting the urge to toss the axe into the forge fire and to witness it burn into oblivion.
“That’s an unusual design,” Master Timo observed.
“It was meant for wood, once.” Then feeling something more should be said, he added, “Your apprentice has fine tools.”
Every smith made his own tools, starting as an apprentice. And the tools Devlin had used showed the quality of a journeyman, at least.
The smith beamed with pleasure. “He should. He’s my son. He’ll be a master himself, one day.”
Devlin knew he should leave, but he did not. For all the strangeness of the wood building, it was indeed a forge, and it was the only place in this strange city that had the feel of home.
He glanced over at the racks of iron and steel bars.
“I need some bolts, as well. I would make my own, if you would let me pay you for the steel.” He did not really need the bolts. He had a half dozen bolts in his pack, and as Chosen One could easily requisition whatever else he desired. What he needed was not the bolts, but to remember that once he had been something more than he was now.
“How many do you need?”
“A dozen should do. Steel, not iron, if you can spare it.”
“All our weapons are made of steel,” Master Timo said firmly. “I keep the iron for horseshoes and the like. Make a dozen for yourself, and four dozen for me, and we will call it a fair exchange.”
“Agreed.” Devlin selected two bars of steel from the rack, then placed them in the fire bed to heat. He used the opportunity to study the bolts that were set on the shelves near the door, noting that they were the same design he was familiar with, but longer by a good handspan. He brought one back to the bench to use as a pattern.
The steel was glowing red. He pumped the bellows till the fire was roaring. When the steel bar had turned white with heat he removed it from the fire and began to work. His body remembered his craft, and his arm swung with its old rhythm. Soon he was lost in his work, his mind shutting away all thoughts save those of the steel, and of the task before him.
Long unused to such work, the muscles in his back began to ache and then to burn. He ignored them, as he ignored the sweat that rolled off his body, pausing only to strip off his shirt. With each stroke of the hammer, sparks flew, and the metal rang in a sweet song that he had not known how much he had missed until he heard it anew.
It had been years since he had performed such simple craft, and yet his movements were swift and sure. He made the first dozen bolts for himself, as practice, and then began to work on the ones he had promised the smith.
Captain Drakken entered the forge, her eyes blinking as she made the transition from bright sunlight to the dimness inside. She saw Master Timo at once. He had a dagger and a sharpening stone in his hands, but it was clear that all his attention was on the apprentice at work in the corner.
Master Timo nodded as he saw
her but did not speak. With a jerk of his head he directed her attention to the other occupant of the forge.
As her eyes adjusted she realized that the man at work was too large and well muscled to be Master Timo’s son. And then she saw something that made her blink, and then blink again.
Terrible white scars ran down the length of the man’s back. As he swung the hammer, she could see that the scars extended across his left side and chest. She did not know what manner of beast could have made those marks, save that it must have been larger than any creature she had ever heard of.
She had seen her share of deadly wounds, in the days before the King had confined the Guard to patrolling the city. But never had she seen anyone live who had been half so grievously hurt. By all the Gods, the man standing before her should have been dead a dozen times over.
She opened her mouth to ask Timo where he had found such an unlikely helper. Then the man turned, and she recognized the face of the Chosen One. She was shocked, then angry at herself for not having recognized him. Devlin Stonehand had declared himself a metalsmith only the day before. She should have known him at once.
But the man in the forge was not the same man that she had seen in the palace that morning. This man looked infinitely more sure of himself. And infinitely more dangerous.
“Captain Drakken,” he said, inclining his head in the manner of a King receiving an audience.
“Chosen One,” she replied, giving him the formal salute for the first time since the ceremony.
Her eyes were drawn back to the scars that were visible on his chest. Running in parallel tracks, they had the look of claw marks, although she fervently wished never to encounter a creature that could make those kinds of wounds. But apparently Devlin had, and somehow survived. And recently too. She would wager her Captain’s rank that those scars had been made less than a year ago.
Her gaze seemed to discomfit him. He reached for the shirt that lay discarded on the workbench, then shrugged it on. She longed to ask him what had caused those scars, but sensed that this was not a question he would answer.
“The bolts are finished, although you will want to check them yourself after the last set has cooled,” Devlin said, addressing Master Timo.
The smith nodded, but did not speak.
“You wished speech with me?” Devlin asked.
She shook her head. “No, I came to speak with Master Timo about what we discussed this morning.”
“Then I will leave you to your duty. Master, I thank you again for the use of your forge and your son’s tools.”
Master Timo turned his head so he did not have to meet Devlin’s gaze. “The Chosen One has only to command and whatever you need is yours,” he said stiffly.
Devlin’s face grew shuttered. He gathered up a handful of crossbow bolts from the bench, then picked up what appeared to be an axe, with the axe head wrapped in linen. “Let me at least pay you for the steel,” he said, reaching into his belt pouch.
“I do not want your coin.”
Devlin held out a silver coin, but the smith refused to take it. With a curse, Devlin threw the coin into the far corner. “Tell your son it is for the use of his tools,” he growled. Then he stalked out of the forge, without a backward glance.
Master Timo’s rudeness surprised her, as did Devlin’s angry reaction.
“So that was the Chosen One,” Master Timo said. “He is not what I expected.”
“Nor I.” Devlin Stonehand continued to surprise her. Even after the ceremony she had dismissed him as another who would do more harm than good in the short time before he met his death. Now she was forced to revise her opinion. The man who bore such scars might have skills that she could use.
Turning her attention back to Master Timo, she explained her concern over what other mischief the traitorous smith might have caused, and commissioned him to seek out and replace anything that might have been tampered with.
“It will take weeks, if not months, to do this right. And cost more than you have in your budget for a year’s worth of weapon work.”
“Leave that to me. And if the steward complains, I will tell him that this is done by orders of the Chosen One.”
The smith grimaced at the mention of the new Chosen.
“You do not like him? But you let him use your forge.”
“That was before I knew who he was.”
“And now?”
“Yesterday, when you told me of a man who had known that a sword was flawed simply by listening to the metal, I knew it must be a trick. Yet today, having seen him work, I cannot deny that he is a man of skill. Perhaps even a master, in his own country,” Master Timo said grudgingly.
“And?” So Devlin had some skill as a smith. She did not see why that would make Master Timo angry.
“So why would a man with hands like that decide to become Chosen One? Any smith in the city would have gladly taken him on as a journeyman, even a partner in time.” Timo shook his head. “I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense. A waste of good talent, that’s what I think.”
It made no sense to her either. At first she had thought Devlin a farmer fallen on hard times, who had decided to try his luck as Chosen One. Yet from what Master Timo said, Devlin could easily have found work as a smith. So it had not been mere poverty that drove Devlin to seek the post. She prided herself on her ability to judge people, yet Devlin Stonehand continued to surprise her.
Perhaps she should stop trying to puzzle him out and simply make use of the tool that the Gods had placed in her hand. She would give him a task, and let him make of it what he would.
Five
DEVLIN RETURNED TO HIS QUARTERS AS THE SUN was setting, carrying under one arm the newly reforged axe and the bolts which he had fashioned. The memory of the forge master’s scorn lingered bitterly in his mind. Always before, a forge had been a safe haven for him, the one place he was sure of himself. But now even that was denied to him. Master Timo had made it clear that there would be no welcome for any man who bore the title of Chosen One.
As he turned down the hall that led to his quarters, a wave of hunger swept over him, and he realized he had not eaten since he had broken his fast that morning. Any hope of a quiet dinner was dashed by the sight of a liveried servant standing outside his door. The woman bowed as he approached.
“My lord Chosen One. The Royal Steward sends his compliments, and begs that you join the household in the Great Hall for the evening meal.”
Devlin eyed her askance. He doubted very much that the haughty steward had ever begged for anything in his life. No doubt this was just a courteous turn of phrase.
“I am grateful for the honor,” Devlin said carefully. “But I would prefer a quieter repast.”
The servant shook her head. “But my lord, you cannot. To do so would be discourteous. All the King’s court join in the weekly court dinner. It is the custom.”
Courtesy. Custom. The two words bound him with chains as firmly as any Geas. The rules of hospitality were as much a part of him as the color of his hair or the cadence of his speech. He could not deny her request.
“Then it seems I have no choice,” he said.
The servant woman smiled in relief, and Devlin wondered what would have happened to her if he had refused to comply. She reached behind her and opened the door to his chambers, then bowed, motioning for him to enter.
“I have laid out the garments for you to wear,” she said. “Shall I assist you in donning them?”
“No!” he said swiftly, then in a softer voice. “No, I can dress myself.”
He closed the door firmly behind him. A quick glance at the bed showed that she had laid out his formal uniform. First he placed the axe in the bottom of his wardrobe, then he opened his pack and stored the bolts in the holder within.
He stripped off his old clothes, piling them neatly next to his wardrobe. Then he turned his attention to his uniform, eyeing the unfamiliar garments with distrust. The gray silk shirt slipped over his head easily, an
d the buttons which held it closed were simple enough to figure out, though they ran across the shoulder rather than down the chest. Next he slipped on a pair of gray trousers made of leather that had been tanned to an unbelievable softness. The trousers were a bit loose, but a belt of silver links solved that problem.
But the gray half boots proved an impossible fit. His foot was too broad to fit into the narrow, pointed toes, and after two attempts he gave up in disgust. He would have to wear his own boots, no matter how disgraceful their condition. Fortunately the trousers were loose enough that he could pull them over the tops of the boots.
He regarded his appearance in the mirror next to the wardrobe. He looked like a damn fool. The shirt and trousers might be fit for a lord, but the weathered face and plain boots belonged to a countryman.
There was a rap at the door. “My lord? We must leave now or you will be late,” a voice called.
“I am ready,” Devlin said.
The servant woman escorted him through the castle. He recognized the hallway that he had seen that morning, but rather than turning right to the servants’ area, his guide continued straight ahead.
At last they turned the corner, and before he knew it, he was standing at the entrance to a vast hall. At the far end, a long table set on a raised dais faced the occupants. Below, at right angles to the dais, were a dozen lines of tables. The room was lit by chandeliers, which hung suspended from the high ceiling. Bright banners decorated the walls, and silver plate shone on the tables.
There was room for a dozen dozen to dine, he thought, and then realized that he had underestimated. Perhaps thrice a dozen dozen could be seated at the benches, not to mention all the servants required to wait on them.
But his guide would not permit him to linger. “Come,” she said, tugging on his sleeve when he proved reluctant to follow. “The steward instructed me to bring you to the gathering room, where you will join the others.”
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