Seeming to realize that Devlin had no intention of coming at his call, Master Dreng excused himself from his companions and approached.
“Chosen One.”
“Mage,” Devlin said flatly.
“I must congratulate you on your survival, although you have cost me another wager.” The mage’s tone was light, but he inspected Devlin from head to foot, as if he was trying to divine the secret of Devlin’s survival.
And perhaps he could. He was a master mage, after all. Who knew what he could do? Devlin repressed a shudder at the thought.
“I regret if my survival distresses you,” he said. “I will try to be more considerate in the future.”
Master Dreng blinked. “I believe you are mocking me.”
“No doubt an unusual experience. But there is a first time for everything,” Duke Gerhard said, as he joined them. “After all, who would have thought that one of the Caerfolk would be Chosen? What other new wonders will there be under the sun? Perhaps pigs will fly, or horses begin to sing.”
The back of his neck prickled, and Devlin felt his muscles tense. Something about the King’s Champion made him uneasy. Perhaps it was the way his cold green eyes be-lied his seemingly affable smile. Or maybe it was the way he seemed to regard Devlin as a nuisance, someone whose presence was unworthy of his notice. Or it could be simply Devlin’s own ingrained dislike for the man who led the Royal Army. After all, the troops that garrisoned Duncaer called this man General, and followed his bidding.
“The report of your adventure in Astavard has reached even my ears,” Duke Gerhard said. “What a formidable test of skill that was. An old woman, and two beardless young men? You are lucky you escaped with your life.”
Devlin felt his anger rise. What did this posturing noble know of fighting for one’s life? All of his battles had been fought on the sands of the practice floor. “The inn-wife and her family murdered over three dozen innocent travelers. What I did was justice. No more and no less.”
“Of course,” Duke Gerhard said, but his tone was disbelieving.
“And as for skill, there is a world of difference between a pretty duel and a fight for one’s life. I would match my skill against anyone’s on the killing floor,” he declared rashly. Even as he said the words, he knew they were a hollow boast. His skills were no match for those of a master swordsman.
Duke Gerhard’s eyes glittered. “Perhaps that can be arranged. I have always wanted to match blades with one of the Caerfolk.”
“I am at your service,” Devlin replied. His heart leapt with a fatalistic joy as he realized the Duke was seriously considering his offer. With luck he could goad the Champion into making a killing stroke, ending Devlin’s torment. Devlin took a step closer so that he stared the King’s Champion full in the face. “What better place than here, what better time than now?”
“No!” Master Dreng interjected, grasping Devlin by the shoulder and pulling him backward.
Devlin had forgotten about the mage. He glared fiercely at Master Dreng, as did the King’s Champion.
“No, my lords, you must see reason,” the magician said hastily. “The Chosen One is spellbound, under Geas. If he engages in a duel, I cannot predict the outcome. The risk to you, as the King’s Champion will prevent him from defending himself. Your Grace, you must see how unseemly this is.”
Duke Gerhard nodded. “Of course, Master Dreng. I was but toying with the idea, but naturally such a challenge could not be accepted. Not in light of the Chosen One’s duty…and, err, skills.”
Devlin felt a surge of disappointment as he realized that his wish was not to be granted. He allowed Master Dreng to lead him away from the confrontation, and when the magician thrust a goblet in his hand, he drained it in a single gulp.
“You were lucky today,” Master Dreng said. “Even I would not lightly antagonize Duke Gerhard. The man is a master of the sword and a cold-blooded strategist. He has never lost a duel. Ever. That is why he is the King’s Champion.”
“It is not over between us,” Devlin said. “Someday I will test his skill, and then we shall see.”
Ten
THE DUELING EXHIBITION WAS BUT ONE OF THE DIVERSIONS provided for the members of the royal court. The courtiers’ days were packed full, from morning until the small hours of the night. Even Devlin came in for his share of invitations, and slowly he began to accept a few. It was not that he sought out diversion, for in truth most court functions left him bewildered and bored. But rather he had come to realize that his only hope of achieving the oblivion he desired lay in finding a challenge that the Geas would let him pursue. Such knowledge would not come to him while he skulked in his room or haunted the low taverns. Instead he would find it in the gossip of the courtiers, and their tales of the troubles that beset the fringes of the empire.
Much to his surprise, Devlin found that the courtiers gossiped quite freely within his hearing, seeing no reason to conceal their secrets from him. Perhaps it was because they realized he knew too little of the working of the court to make use of what he learned. Or perhaps it was simply that they did not see him as a person at all. In their eyes, he was as invisible as one of the servants, or a piece of furniture. A tool, not a man to be reckoned with.
This day was no exception, and as he strolled through the crowds gathered on the grassy Queen’s field to watch the races, he overheard snatches of conversation. But since he knew only a few of the members of the court, much of what he heard made no sense to him. It did him little good to know that the family of Baldur Hurlafson was rumored to be penniless, or that Mistress Botilda of the silk trader’s guild had taken a lover half her age, installing him in her great new mansion on the eastern hill.
Of slightly more interest was the news that a young woman named Dageid had fled the capital after killing her opponent in an illegal duel. Should he ever encounter this Dageid, perhaps the Geas would allow him to challenge her to a fight, in the name of justice. If she was half as skilled as they claimed, he would win a mercifully quick death.
Devlin watched the first race, but found he had little interest in this artificial sport. The horses were strange, fragile-looking creatures, and their riders scarcely more than children. The races were as far removed from real horsemanship as the courtly duels were from a battlefield. And yet the crowds around him cheered passionately, as if this were a matter of life and death. It made no sense to him, and he resumed his wandering progress.
He strolled by one of the canopied tents on the south side of the field, erected to provide shelter from the heat of the sun. A few nobles stood within, sipping wine punch and talking desultorily. He overheard a woman musing that it was a waste to bet against the Countess of Rosmaar, for no one dared risk her wrath by defeating her favorite stallion. He had been beaten only once, but the owner of the winning horse had found his satisfaction brief. The Countess had thrown her support to his enemies, and he soon found himself friendless at court and forced to resign his seat on the King’s Council.
Devlin had been warned that court politics could be a deadly game, and this tale seemed to bear out the truth of those words. He kept his ears open, but heard nothing else of interest until he heard his own name.
“Isn’t that him? The Chosen One?” a young man asked.
“Yes,” another replied. The second speaker sounded older.
Devlin paused, his back to the tent. He shaded his eyes, and scanned over the assembled crowds, looking for the green pavilion where he had been told he could find his host.
“Doesn’t it give you the shivers when you see him? I can’t imagine speaking to him, can you? It is as if you are talking to one already dead,” the young man observed.
“Caution, he may hear us.”
Wise advice, but the young man ignored it. “But you must admit it is strange. Alfrim said as much to me, at the last court dinner. How can we be expected to take pleasure in our repast, when he is there? When one speaks to him, it is as if one speaks to the Dread Lord himself. On
e is almost tempted to give him a message to carry into the dark realm.”
The words struck an angry chord within Devlin, and he abruptly turned on his heel. He gazed into the tent and saw two men standing together. As Devlin caught his eye, the young lordling flushed red, and Devlin knew he had identified the speaker. Devlin made his way slowly into the tent.
“Your name?”
“Miklof. Miklof Serikson,” the young man said, with a gulp. His fingers were white where they gripped the wine cup.
“I will remember your name, and give your greetings to Lord Haakon when I join his realm,” Devlin said.
The older man drew in his breath with a hiss. “My cousin meant no insult—”
“Then he should take more care in what he says,” Devlin answered. “My service prevents me from answering any insults to my person, but there are others who are not so bound, and who will be less forgiving than I.”
Miklof now looked ill. No doubt he was contemplating the folly of having mocked both the Chosen One and the Death God. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Devlin was in no mood to hear whatever excuses he might make, and turned on his heel and left.
Leaving the courtiers behind, Devlin made his way through the crowds of commoners and merchants, until he reached the far side of the oval track and the fluttering flags he had spotted earlier. Here, on a slight rise, an elaborate pavilion had been set up, nearly fifty feet long, with cushioned seats for the assembled guests. Servants circulated among them, bearing trays of drinks and refreshments. Recognizing his uniform, a servant unfastened the silken rope as Devlin approached, allowing him to enter.
There was a roar of noise from the crowd, and Devlin looked over to see that the previous race had just finished.
Devlin made his way over to his host. Count Magaharan, the Ambassador from Selvarat, was a tall, ascetic-looking man, with shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a silver clasp. Rather than court robes, he wore a simple tunic of pale green silk and dark brown trousers. But there was no mistaking his power. It was there in his eyes, and in the way that all present were turned so that at least some of their attention was focused on the ambassador.
The Count was conversing with Councilor Arnulf and another noble, but when he saw Devlin, he abruptly broke off his conversation and came forward.
“Chosen One, I am pleased you saw fit to accept my invitation,” he said, smiling as if he and Devlin were old friends. “A beautiful day for the races, is it not?”
“The day is fine,” Devlin replied. “And I thank you for your hospitality.”
The Count took Devlin’s arm and guided him to a spot near the front of the pavilion. “Here, we will have an unobstructed view of the next race,” he said.
Count Magaharan snapped his fingers, and a servant came over. “Will you take wine?”
“Citrine.” On such a hot day even a small amount of alcohol was certain to go to one’s head, and Devlin needed to keep his wits about him if he was to learn anything of use.
“For myself as well.”
The servant fetched them two pale crystal glasses of citrine. Devlin took a sip, for the sake of politeness.
“So, what do you think of the races so far?”
“An interesting custom,” Devlin answered. “I have not seen their like.”
Count Magaharan’s eyebrows rose. “Truly? But surely you have horse races in your own province.”
“Not like this,” Devlin said, waving his right hand toward the starting line, where a half dozen horses were being maneuvered into position. “Duncaer is a rocky place, and we have little flat land for such things as races. Our horses are bred for endurance, and for making the best of poor trails. Our contests are tests of skill and stamina.”
The Count frowned. “You do not know what you are missing. True racehorses are among the most noble of all animals, and in my country they are greatly prized. See there, the gray mare on the end, with the crimson rider?”
Devlin nodded.
“Is she not beautiful? Her sire was bred in Selvarat, and sent here as a gift from our Emperor to King Olafur, to celebrate the birth of his daughter Ragenilda. Many great racers have come from that line.”
“A creature fit for nobles, for no other could afford to keep something that has no use,” Devlin observed. “Those legs are too delicate for rough country, and breeding a horse to win at short sprints is of no use when a battle-trained mount is needed.”
The Count gazed at him in horror. “You have no soul,” Count Magaharan declared.
A shout went up, and Devlin turned to see that the race was under way. He was amazed by the fervor with which the crowds cheered their favorites. Even Count Magaharan was not immune, calling, “Fly, Wind Dancer, fly.”
Devlin took another sip of citrine, and in a few moments the race was over, the gray mare loping over the finish line several horse lengths ahead of the rest. A few hissed, but most cheered to see the favorite win.
“See, I told you she was a champion,” Count Magaharan declared.
“The Jorskians agree with you,” Devlin said, nodding to indicate the crowds that had advanced to surround the winning horse and rider. “Your people and theirs must have much in common.”
“Yes, though it took us until the time of Emperor Jeoffroi to realize the folly of our old enmity and to make peace.”
“But you are allies, are you not?”
“Now, yes,” Count Magaharan said. “But that was not always so. It was nearly a hundred years ago that we put aside our animosity, and joined with King Axel to defeat the Nerikaat alliance. It was a glorious campaign and since that time we have been the firmest of friends.”
Devlin shrugged. It was Jorsk’s present that concerned him, not the past. His gaze wandered around the pavilion, noting those members of the court whom he recognized.
“Surely such a great event is still part of your history. You must have learned it as a child,” Count Magaharan said.
“Their history, not mine,” Devlin corrected. “I am of Duncaer.”
“Ah yes. That is a province, to the south, is it not? I seem to recall it was annexed during the reign of the King’s grandfather.”
“It was conquered, not annexed.” Even Devlin could hear the anger in his tone, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.
“And it seems you bear little love for those of Jorsk. So tell me, what is one of the conquered people doing as the Chosen One?”
Count Magaharan’s tone was casual, but his dark eyes betrayed his keen interest, and Devlin knew that this was the reason why he had been invited to this event. Devlin was as much a mystery to the members of the court as they were to him. And in the Count’s position as Ambassador, no doubt he wished to know as much as possible about his allies.
“Think of me as a mercenary,” Devlin said.
“You must be the best-paid mercenary in history,” the Count said, with a faint smile.
“Not yet. But I will be,” Devlin added. Though the true payment he sought was not one the Count was likely to understand. And even if he tried to explain, he doubted he would be believed. How could anyone understand that the true reward he sought was not coin, but his own death? Only someone who had suffered as Devlin had would understand the impulse that drove him to seek his own destruction.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” Devlin said. “But I have taken much of your time, so I will leave you now, to your other guests.”
“The thanks is mine,” Count Magaharan said. “I hope we can speak again someday.”
“That is in the hands of the Gods,” Devlin replied. And should Lord Haakon finally relent and accept Devlin’s sacrifice, they would not meet again until Count Magaharan made his own journey to the Dread Lord’s realm.
Three days after the races, Devlin received an urgent summons to attend the King’s Council. The royal messenger made it clear that the summons brooked no delay, and Devlin speculated as to the cause as he accompanied the messenger through the palace. The counci
l had been meeting daily now that the court was officially open, and yet his presence had never been requested before.
Could it be that they had an errand for him? An enemy that he could face? Any excuse to leave this strange and inhospitable place would be welcome.
Two guards in dress livery flanked the doors to the council chamber. Recognizing the Chosen One, or perhaps the authority of the royal messenger, they uncrossed their spears and opened the doors, bowing low as Devlin passed.
Devlin entered the room. The doors swung shut behind him.
“At last,” a voice muttered, but Devlin did not know who had uttered the words.
His attention was fixed on King Olafur, who sat at the head of an oval table of richly polished heartwood. He had seen the King several times in the past weeks. But the King had barely acknowledged his existence. Until now. And as he had on their first meeting, Devlin found himself oddly disappointed by this man whom he had sworn to protect with his life. King Olafur was a man of average stature, with thinning blond hair and lines of perpetual worry on his face. Save for the golden circle on his brow he might have been any merchant or small farmer, facing hard times.
To the King’s left sat Duke Gerhard, the King’s Champion. To his right sat Countess Ingeleth, who was first among the King’s councilors. Along the table sat a dozen other councilors and officials. He recognized the Royal Steward, and the gossipy Lord Baldur, whom he had overheard at the duel.
Captain Drakken was not there, but a lieutenant in the uniform of the Guard sat midway down the table.
The foot of the table held an empty chair.
Devlin took a step, then hesitated, realizing he did not know the courtesy and custom of this situation. Should he greet the King? Should he wait for the King to greet him? Was he expected to bow or to kneel in the fashion of the foreign courtiers?
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