Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  She knew if she stayed there, she could trace the stone’s nearly imperceptible movements as it followed the Chosen One on his journey. The stone had been sealed to him at the ceremony. It would mark his journey until his return to the city, when the stone would be replaced in the box on the altar.

  If the stone grew dim, it meant the Chosen One was in mortal danger, though there was naught they could do about that from within the city. And if, or when, he died, the stone would turn black and fall to the floor, where it would shatter into dust.

  She let her gaze wander over the mosaic. Over the years the mosaic had been added to as the Kingdom had expanded, concluding with the annexation of Duncaer a generation before. The realm looked impressive, but she knew it was a falsehood. The Kingdom was decaying, crumbling around them despite her best efforts. She had served in the Guard for more than two dozen years, rising in rank from private to Captain. And each year she had watched the Kingdom slip inexorably into chaos.

  Piece by piece, the fabric of the Kingdom was being frayed away. Pirates preyed in coastal waters, so-called rogue soldiers from Nerikaat raided freely over the borders of the two countries, and the great southern swamp had risen, some say by magic, to overwhelm the Southern Road.

  And still the King did nothing, as his advisors quarreled amongst themselves how best to meet these threats. If only there was an army arrayed against them, an enemy that they could see and understand, then surely the King would release the army to defend against their attackers. But the threat that faced Jorsk was far more subtle. A gradual decay, which had slowly paralyzed the Kingdom and its King with fear.

  It was a hard thing, to realize that the King you served was afraid. Afraid of making the wrong decision. Afraid of committing troops to one battle only to learn the true enemy lay elsewhere. Afraid that he was not half the military commander that his father had been, when then Prince Thorvald had led the conquest of Duncaer. And Duke Gerhard played along with the King’s fears, telling the King he was being prudent, and that his restraint was the sign of wise leadership.

  So the Royal Army remained safe in its garrisons, while she and her Guard kept the peace in Kingsholm, and around them the chaos grew worse. Once confined to the borders, now the troubles were moving into the heartland. As witnessed by this robber band, which operated with impunity only a week’s ride from the capital.

  It was foolish to think that one man, even the Chosen One, could do anything about these troubles. She knew this, yet she had sent him anyway, for she had no other choice. She hated this feeling of impotence.

  Her eyes returned to the soul stone, willing it to stay bright and beating. It had been years since she had begged a favor of the Gods, or indeed since she had put her faith in anything save her own competence and that of her guards. But in the coming days she knew that not even they would be enough to save the Kingdom from the dangers threatening it.

  Conscious of Brother Arni’s watchful gaze she muttered a short prayer for the Chosen One, and for her Kingdom, for now both would need the help of the Gods to survive.

  Six

  CAPTAIN DRAKKEN SHIFTED SLIGHTLY IN HER SEAT, trying to find a comfortable position. Not for the first time she reflected that the wooden council chairs would make ingenious torture devices. After hours of being forced to sit still in one of them, she herself was ready to confess to any number of petty crimes, if such would buy her freedom. But alas freedom was not so simply won, and she turned her wandering thoughts back to the debate.

  Besides herself, thirteen other councilors sat on either side of the long oak table. At one end was the empty seat reserved for the King, flanked on either side by Duke Gerhard and Lady Ingeleth, the senior councilors. The remaining seats were filled by councilors in order of their rank. The vacant chair at the foot of the table was reserved for guests of the council.

  She noticed that none of the other councilors seemed as ill at ease as she. Perhaps it was because they were regular attendees at council, while she attended only when requested to do so. Or perhaps they were as good at concealing their discomfort as they were at concealing their true motivations.

  “So, we are agreed then? Lord Tynset’s petition to acknowledge Jasen Storenson as his heir should be denied. Upon Tynset’s death the Barony of Tamarack will revert to the crown,” Lady Ingeleth said.

  The elderly council woman’s gaze went around the table, and watched as each head nodded, one after another.

  Only Councilor Dorete, the most junior among them, spoke up. “It is a shame, truly it is. But if he wanted to claim Jasen as his son, he should have done so at birth, and not waited these dozen years,” she said.

  A dozen years ago, Lord Tynset had no doubt planned on one of his legitimate heirs inheriting. But that had been before a hunting accident robbed him of his virility. Now, with both his son and daughter dead in the strange epidemic that had decimated his people, the Baron had become desperate, and brought forward one of his by-blows.

  There was precedent for such a thing, but it would have required wealth or political influence to sway the council, and Tynset had neither. Tamarack was a poor province and coping with the recent plague had emptied the Baron’s coffers. And he had no political friends to help him. The traditionalists, to whom he owed his allegiance, were firmly against legitimizing a bastard, lest it call into question their own titles. And the more progressive elements had no reason to love Tynset, and every reason to hope that the King would name one of their own as the new Baron. Any fool could have predicted the council’s response, but for form’s sake they had debated the matter solemnly before casting their votes.

  “But you agree that the petition should be denied, Councilor Dorete?” Lady Ingeleth asked.

  “Yes, of course. If that is what everyone feels is best,” Councilor Dorete stammered.

  Captain Drakken bit back a sigh. Councilor Dorete was too young and inexperienced for her position, barely four-and-twenty. The traditionalists had championed her appointment to the council, to fill the seat her mother had once held. But Captain Drakken suspected their selection of Dorete had less to do with their respect for her late mother than it did with the knowledge that Dorete would make an excellent puppet, one who would do exactly as she was told.

  “Let it be recorded that the council unanimously recommends that the King deny Lord Tynset’s petition,” Lady Ingeleth said, handing the scroll to the scribe who sat behind her. “Now, for the next matter, Captain Drakken wishes to address the council.”

  Finally. Captain Drakken rose to her feet and bowed to the assembled council members as required by custom, since they had been appointed by the King, while she was here merely as a courtesy to her position.

  “At the last council meeting, I reported that the Royal Armorer had found five flawed blades among those set aside for the Chosen Ones. This was in addition to the one that the new Chosen had discovered during the ceremony. The records showed that during his time the false smith worked on a half dozen practice swords for the Guard, along with spearheads, a handful of shield bosses, and two gross of crossbow bolts. While Master Timo has found no flaws in these items that he can detect, at the command of the Chosen One he has undertaken the task of forging each anew. As well as forging new swords for the future Choosing Ceremonies.”

  Councilor Arnulf shook his head from side to side. “Are you certain this is necessary? It will cost a fortune to redo this work.”

  “It is better to err on the side of caution,” Captain Drakken said. “I will not risk the lives of my guards by giving them equipment made by a traitor.”

  “But you offer no proof that this smith was a traitor,” Duke Gerhard said. “He may be simply the victim of circumstances. Of poor quality steel, perhaps, that caused the swords to fail.”

  She ground her teeth. “A competent smith should have seen the problem at once. Master Timo had no trouble detecting the flawed swords.”

  “Is it possible that the swords were tampered with after they were made?”
Lord Sygmund asked.

  “A very good question. According to Master Timo it is most likely that the flaws were inherent in the manufacture of the swords. But a skilled smith could have altered the swords, heating them and warping the temper of the metal. Though it would take great skill to do so, and leave no visible sign.”

  From his seat across the table, Councilor Arnulf cleared his throat, and then waited until he was the focus of all eyes. “Perhaps the answer is right before our eyes. No doubt Master Timo was angry that such an important commission was given to another. He may have sought to discredit his rival by tampering with the swords. After all, he is the only one with anything to gain here. The commissions on replacing these weapons will fatten his purse, and he will keep his reputation as the foremost smith in Kingsholm.”

  “But why would anyone stoop to such a foul deed?” Councilor Dorete asked, her brow wrinkling in thought. “Isn’t that treason?”

  “If the blades were tampered with, then yes, that is treason,” Lady Ingeleth said. “But I must disagree with Councilor Arnulf. Maser Timo has no motive for such a deed. As Royal Armorer, he receives an annual stipend from the treasury. Reforging the weapons will cost him in time and materials, but will not add to his own fortune. Nor will it add greatly to his consequence, for surely there are those who will say that as armorer he is responsible for all weapons in the armory, regardless of whether or not he made them himself.”

  “And what does the Chosen One have to say? Why is he not here making his own report, since this was done at his command?” Lord Baldur asked.

  “At my request the Chosen One is journeying to Astavard, to investigate the robber band that preys upon travelers through that forest,” Captain Drakken said.

  “And you did not see fit to consult us before sending him on this errand?” Lady Ingeleth asked.

  Captain Drakken shook her head. “Such a task is within my authority. And since the council had refused my requests to send either army troops or members of the Guard to investigate, I took the initiative to send the Chosen One.”

  “You take much on yourself,” Lady Ingeleth observed. “The royal roads are not the province of the City Guard.”

  Lady Ingeleth was no friend to Captain Drakken, but she was honest, and one of the few on the council who could be swayed by reason.

  “The Guard is responsible for the security of Kingsholm, true. But we are also charged with the safety of the royal family. That includes securing the palace and the other royal residences. Including the King’s hunting lodge at Astavard,” Captain Drakken explained.

  “Even if Astavard falls under your domain, the royal roads do not,” Lady Ingeleth said.

  “If not the Guard, then who else shall see to them?” Captain Drakken demanded. “Who will protect the King’s own lands, and ensure the royal roads remain open? At least I am willing to do something.”

  “And just what is it that you think your guards can do?” Councilor Arnulf asked. “They are thief-takers. Skilled at breaking up tavern brawls, perhaps, but no match for warriors.”

  Captain Drakken fixed her gaze on Duke Gerhard, for she knew that he was her true opponent here. Arnulf was just his tool. “At least I am willing to commit my troops, rather than letting them molder away, unused.”

  “Show me an enemy I can face, and I will commit my troops to battle,” Duke Gerhard said. “But I will not scatter my forces heedlessly around the countryside, chasing after every will-o’-the-wisp.”

  It was the same argument they had had many times before. The Duke, with the King’s backing, insisted on holding the Royal Army in readiness, prepared for battle. They were fools, for they could not see that this enemy was different. There was no invading army, no great battle in their future. Instead, the Kingdom was dying from a thousand tiny pinpricks.

  She knew some on the council saw the same dangers that she did, yet even her backers could not agree upon a course of action. They argued fervently in favor of their own interests, unwilling to put the Kingdom’s welfare ahead of their own. And as for herself, she had a voice on the council, but no vote. She could only try to persuade and cajole, and hope that the council saw reason before it was too late.

  “This matter has already been debated, and our decision stands,” Lady Ingeleth said. “And while it would have been politic for Captain Drakken to consult us beforehand, she was within her rights to give this task to the Chosen One.”

  Duke Gerhard smiled mirthlessly. “And after all, should the Chosen One fail in his task, he will hardly be missed.”

  Lord Sygmund nodded, stroking the blond beard about which he was inordinately vain. “Now I see the urgency of replacing the ceremonial swords. Soon we will need a new sword, for the next Chosen One.”

  Captain Drakken felt ashamed, as she realized that their sentiments mirrored her own. She had given this task to Devlin precisely because he was expendable. And yet he deserved better than to be made the subject of the council’s mockery.

  “He may succeed at his task, and surprise us all,” Captain Drakken said.

  “Or he may wind up dead in some forest glade, and us the poorer by another ten golden disks,” Councilor Arnulf argued. “Money that could be put to far better use. Even you, Captain, must agree that the Chosen One is a costly anachronism. How much lower are we prepared to sink? This man is a foreign peasant, to whom we have given not just money, but also rank and power. It is no wonder the Gods are deserting us in the face of such folly.”

  “The Chosen One is one of our most ancient traditions. King Olafur is ever mindful of our history, and rightly so,” Duke Gerhard said. “Still, there is wisdom in what Councilor Arnulf says. There is much that could be done with ten golden disks. With such a sum you could recruit and equip another two dozen guards, could you not?”

  “Easily,” Captain Drakken agreed. With such a sum she could recruit thirty guards, furnish their equipment, and pay them for a full year. Last month she had begged the council for only half such a sum, only to be rebuffed.

  But she knew better than to suppose that the Duke was serious in his suggestion. Should they abolish the post of Chosen One, there was little chance that any of the funds would wind up in her coffers. Instead it would be kept for the Privy Purse to be dispensed to the royal favorites, while she and the Guard were left to make do with their limited resources.

  “Your views on the Chosen One are well-known, Your Grace,” Lady Ingeleth said. “But we will not resolve this today, and so with your leave we will set this matter aside until the King is ready to debate it.”

  “Of course,” Duke Gerhard replied.

  “Captain Drakken, is there anything else you wish to add to your report?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Very well. The council thanks you for your thoroughness,” Lady Ingeleth said.

  Captain Drakken gave another short bow and resumed her seat, uncertain if she had accomplished anything with her testimony. She had hoped that the council would be alarmed by the evidence of the false smith’s treachery but they had not seemed overly concerned. Instead they were far more interested in continuing the endless debate over the need for a Chosen One. A debate whose politics had shifted with Devlin’s selection. The conservative members of the council, who had been the staunchest supporters of the ancient office, looked askance at its current holder, a man they considered to be a foreign interloper.

  Should the King allow the council to debate the subject, there was now a real possibility that they would vote to abolish the office. In which case Devlin would be the last Chosen One, and his death would mark the passing of an era.

  Seven

  HE SHOULD HAVE TAKEN A HORSE. SERGEANT LUKAS had tried to insist, but Devlin had stood firm, Eventually the veteran soldier had been forced to concede, and had reluctantly helped Devlin equip himself for his journey with goods befitting a poor farmer.

  Devlin had been troubled when the Sergeant shared what little was known of these forest marauders. Devlin made no c
laim as a tactical expert. Such was best left to professionals such as Lukas and Captain Drakken. But still, something about the seemingly random attacks had made him uneasy. Though he did not voice the thought aloud, it seemed as if whoever was attacking the travelers was selecting his targets very carefully indeed, choosing only those who were well pursed but not so well off that their disappearance would raise eyebrows in the capital. Such care spoke of inside knowledge.

  Perhaps there was a spy in Kingsholm. If so, then there was no sense in his investigating in the persona of the King’s Chosen. The raiders would either kill him swiftly or avoid him like the plague, and neither would let him fulfill his task. And as soon as he had reached this conclusion, the Geas chose to make itself felt.

  Devlin would travel in disguise. He would take no equerries, nor servants. He would not wear his uniform, or even travel on horseback. Instead he would travel as he had on his journey to the capital, in the garb of a poor farmer, returning to his home.

  He had thought of explaining to Lukas, but had realized that he did not know who in the palace he could trust. And as soon as he had that thought, the words had frozen in his throat. The Geas would not permit him to explain, merely to command. And so he had refused the offers of a mount brusquely, instead gathering a few supplies and slipping from the city as quietly as he could.

  It had seemed a good plan. The nagging voice in his head had seemed to agree. But then the rains had come. For the past three days he had slogged on, ankle deep in muck. The torrential rains soaked his clothes, so that he was no drier wearing his cloak than without it. The straps of his pack dug into the muscles of his shoulders, and his calves ached with weariness at each plodding step.

  A sane man would have taken refuge at one of the scattered farmsteads or tiny villages that he encountered along the road, and wait until the weather cleared. But the Geas allowed no such rest. He had a duty to perform, and the Geas drove him far more harshly than any earthly master.