Devlin's Luck (19 page)

Eleven

THE CHOSEN ONE ARRIVED AT THE ROYAL STABLES as the pale light of near dawn began to brighten the skies. If he was surprised to find that Stephen had preceded him, he made no sign. He waited calmly as the groom brought out his horse, then he inspected the horse from bridle to tail, lifting each hoof to check the fastening of the iron shoe. Tugging on the saddle to ensure it was tightly girthed, he then fastened two saddlebags to the front of the saddle and lashed on a sack of provisions and skins of water behind. Lastly a rolled blanket and cloak were tied to the back.

Stephen had already secured his own gear, but Devlin chose to inspect his mount as well, checking each strap and buckle. Stephen opened his mouth to protest, then shut it with a snap. There was no point in antagonizing the Chosen One. Not while he could still change his mind about allowing Stephen to accompany him.

They rode out of the palace and down to the docks, where they boarded a flat-bottomed river barge. Though the barge was only half-filled, a few words from Devlin in his role as Chosen One were sufficient to inspire the barge owner to begin the trip, though he cursed mightily under his breath.

They traveled downriver with the current for over a week. The passengers and crew ignored the Chosen One, a favor he returned. He also ignored Stephen’s few attempts at conversation or comradeship, eating alone and spending most of his time checking and rechecking his weapons, or working on small scraps of leather that he was fashioning into a kind of harness. But when asked what the harness was for, he only grunted.

It was an inauspicious beginning for a glorious quest, and Stephen began to question the wisdom of his decision. Like most of the other residents of Kingsholm, Stephen had been astonished when the Chosen One had returned from his first errand still living, with barely a scratch to show for his adventures. Neither of the past two Chosen had lived through their first tasks. Though once the grim details began to emerge, Devlin’s survival seemed less a matter of skill and more one of luck. And his feat could hardly compare to the glorious deeds of the past Chosen. Bringing cowardly murderers to justice was necessary, but not even the finest of minstrels could compose a glorious song about such a squalid affair.

On the other hand, the quest to defeat the creature of the lake had the hallmarks of a fine adventure. Whether Devlin defeated the creature or was killed in the attempt, it would make a glorious song—one which would win Stephen fame and the recognition he craved. For Stephen had found these months in the capital to be difficult. His talents for playing and singing, so highly praised in the province of Esker, seemed merely ordinary when compared to the skilled musicians of the capital. He needed something more to make him stand out.

He needed a song. A great song that other minstrels would play, spreading Stephen’s name far and wide. And how better to write that song than to accompany the Chosen One on his journey and learn all about him? It was a good plan, but so far the Chosen One had refused to cooperate. Stephen could only hope that once free from the distractions of the river journey, Devlin would become more approachable.

After eight days, they disembarked at a small village. The rest of the passengers remained on the barge for the trip to the seaport of Bezek.

As they rode through Kalveland, Devlin did his best to ignore Stephen, speaking to him only when absolutely required. When afternoon wore into twilight, they found a small clearing and set up a camp for the night.

Devlin saw to their mounts, while Stephen, who had appointed himself as cook, prepared the evening meal, boiling preserved meat in water to soften it, then frying it with cut-up tubers. Devlin accepted his plate with barely a grunt of acknowledgment, and ate it with solemn concentration.

After the meal, Stephen took his lute from its case and began to tune it. Devlin frowned, but said nothing.

Devlin withdrew a piece of folded leather from one saddlebag and unfolded it to reveal a half dozen thin blades nestled within. Gathering the blades in one hand, he rose, then walked over to a young pine and scratched an X at eye level. He turned and walked away, stopping when he had reached fourteen paces. Then he turned back to face the tree.

Taking one knife in his right hand, he brought his hand up until it was next to his shoulder and let fly. The knife came to rest in the tree, about four feet from the ground. An inch to the left and it would have missed the tree entirely.

Stephen watched, fascinated, his lute forgotten in his lap. He had never seen anything like it before. The second knife flashed through the air, turning end over end until the blade struck home. This shot was closer to the center, and slightly higher than the first. Four more knives flew through the air, the last one nearly on center.

“Well done!” Stephen said.

Devlin shook his head, as he walked over to retrieve the knives. “Too low. And off the mark by a handbreadth or more.”

This time he held the knives in his right hand and prepared to throw with his left. The first shot went wild, missing the tree entirely. “Blast,” Devlin muttered.

He gritted his teeth and tried again. This time he struck the tree, but with the haft of the knife, not the blade. The knife slid to the ground.

The third throw went better, and actually stuck in the tree. After he had thrown all six knives, Devlin retrieved them and began again. He practiced until the twilight faded and he could no longer see the target.

Returning to sit by the fire, Devlin began rubbing the first of the knives with a cloth, to remove the tree sap.

“May I see one?” Stephen asked.

Devlin flicked his hand, and the knife he had been cleaning embedded itself point first in the dirt next to Stephen’s foot.

Stephen pulled the knife out and turned it over in his hands, marveling at its construction. In length it was similar to a dagger, but the blade was far narrower. And unlike a dagger, the blade had no hilt. Instead it was a seamless piece of metal, requiring Devlin to grip it between his fingers as he threw.

Stephen held it, as he had seen Devlin do, and aimed the knife at a nearby tree. He let it fly. The knife tumbled in the air and landed just a few feet from where he sat. Embarrassed, he rose to retrieve it, grateful that Devlin did not see fit to comment.

“I have heard of throwing knives, but never have I seen them used. You must be quite skillful.”

Devlin shook his head. “Hardly. I barely managed to find the tree with my knives, and when I hit the mark it was luck not skill. And this is only a tree. A target that moves is quite a different thing. But with practice I can regain my old skills.”

Those were more words than Devlin had said all day.

“You have used these before then?”

“A long time ago,” Devlin said. “In Alvaren there are peacekeepers…I suppose you would call them guards. They practice with these, and when I was young and foolish I took a fancy to them as well. Ten years ago I could have hit that mark every time, with my eyes closed.”

So Devlin had lived in Alvaren, the capital of Duncaer. And he had been friendly with the guards of that city. Perhaps that was why he was so comfortable around Sergeant Lukas and Captain Drakken. Certainly he had shown Captain Drakken more respect than he had shown anyone else.

“But what need is there for such a weapon? Wouldn’t a bolt from the transverse bow serve equally well?”

“Neither bow nor axe can be used well in a narrow space, or in a crowded dwelling, as I found to my cost. A skilled knifeman can strike the enemy before he can draw a breath.”

“Why don’t you carry a sword?” Stephen asked. He himself was wearing a sword for the trip, a gift from his father.

When he had imagined Devlin as a farmer, or an apprentice metalsmith, then it had seemed fitting that he carried a bow and a war-axe, as did most peasants. But the more he knew of Devlin, the more he realized that this man was no simple farmer. And a man who had trained with guards would have learned to use a sword.

“My wi—my friend told me that I had no skill with the sword. I can recognize a good swordsman from a bad one. I can repair a broken blade, checking its balance and testing its mettle. I could even forge one, given good steel and the right tools. But when the apprentice guards were learning to drill and fight, I was learning metalcraft. And now it is too late for me to begin again.”

“I see,” Stephen said, nodding thoughtfully. It was true the sword was best learned at a young age. His own father had insisted that all of his children learn to use the short fighting sword and the long sword of courtly dueling. As a boy Stephen had hated those lessons, yet now he was grateful for his father’s insistence.

He watched as Devlin unrolled his blankets and lay on top of them, checking first to make sure that his axe was within easy reach.

Stephen felt a trickle of unease. Did the Chosen One really expect that they would be attacked here, in this peaceful country? What danger could there be?

And yet, had Stephen visited that infamous inn, he would have seen no danger there. He might have been killed, like so many others, for the sake of his coins and possessions. He shivered.

Perhaps it was fitting that the Chosen One saw the threat of danger everywhere and trusted no one. Such fears might well keep him and his companion alive.

Within moments Devlin was asleep, but it was a long time before Stephen found his own rest.

Devlin was never again as talkative as he had been that first night. Though he observed carefully, Stephen saw few signs that Devlin was cast in a heroic mold. Instead he discovered ordinary facts, as he would with any traveling companion. Devlin was surly in the morning before his kava, and only slightly less surly afterward. He showed little interest in their surroundings, or in conversing.

Every morning he practiced with the transverse bow, and every evening he practiced with the throwing knives. He began wearing two knives in forearm sheaths hidden under his shirt, and from time to time as they rode he would suddenly jerk his arm and a knife would appear in a fence post, a tree, or once in a rabbit that became their dinner.

Devlin allowed Stephen to direct their course, but he set a hard pace. Each day they began earlier and continued on later. Soon they would reach the border of Esker.

Stephen found his thoughts turning toward home. This was not how he had imagined his return. When he had left in the spring he had sworn he would not return until he was a famous minstrel, covered in glory. He had not really considered how long his absence would be. It might take a year, or two, or even five, for his talents to be recognized and to receive their due acclaim.

And yet here he was, a scant six months later. He wondered what his father would say? Would he be glad to see him? Or would he see Stephen’s decision to accompany the Chosen One as still further proof of his youngest child’s obstinacy and lack of sense?

In many ways his father and Devlin were alike. Both treated him as though he were still a child, someone who could be ordered around, instead of the man he knew himself to be. He longed to prove himself, but he could not see how. Improbable visions danced through his head, where he slew that lake monster single-handed, while Devlin and the fisherfolk watched with awe from the shore. Then he sighed. He knew himself too well to believe himself capable of heroics. When the lake monster appeared, he would probably run screaming in the opposite direction.

It was fortunate that no one expected a minstrel to be a hero. A minstrel did not perform heroic deeds; instead he was a witness bearer who ensured that the hero’s glorious deeds (or tragic defeat) were set down in verse for all time. Now that was a role he could fill with relish.

“We are lost,” Devlin declared, reining in his horse.

Stephen rode up beside him.

“No we are not. I know where we are.”

Devlin shook his head. “You said that before.”

“Well, yes. Then I was lost, I admit it. But that was different. The road I knew was impassable because the bridge was washed out. And the directions that farm woman gave us were incomprehensible. We never did find the stone marker she described.”

That had been three days ago. Once they realized that they had missed the turning, they had compounded the mistake by trying to take a path that led in the direction they were headed. However, the path soon narrowed to a game trail, then disappeared altogether. They had spent most of the day retracing their steps, only to wind up where they had started. This time it had been Devlin who inquired of a local resident on how best to get around the bridge, only to learn that there was a passable ford just half a mile up the river.