Devlin's Luck (26 page)

Devlin ducked, but the demon missile still grazed his shoulder with such force that it tore off clothing and skin. He knew that if the missile had struck directly he would have been dead.

“Here, monster,” Stephen called.

Devlin turned his head, incredulous. Stephen was jumping up and down, waving his cloak in an attempt to divert the creature. “Over here, monster! Try a minstrel for a change.”

But the monster paid no heed to him, and Devlin jumped out of the way as the next missile flew. This one missed as well, but cost him dearly, for as he landed his injured ankle gave way, and he fell to the ground.

Stephen began throwing things from their packs at the monster, hoping to gain its attention. Shoes, cooking pots, and a quiver of arrows all bounced off with no apparent effect. And then he heaved a ceramic jug which broke as it hit the monster’s back, dousing the creature with liquid.

The scent of kelje filled the night. Devlin, with sudden inspiration, pulled his left arm back and threw the torch. The monster burst into flames as the alcohol ignited. It screamed, a high unearthly whine, and clawed at its flesh.

Devlin dragged himself backward, crawling away from that horrible sight. And still the monster continued to burn, with a bright white light that lit the clearing as if it were day.

“By the Gods,” Stephen said.

Devlin silently agreed.

As the fire burned, the monster seemed to shrink in on itself. Devlin and Stephen both armed themselves with fresh torches, but there was no need. The fire continued, blazing white-hot, until there was nothing left of the creature save a blackened stinking circle on the ground.

Sixteen

THEY BUILT THE FIRE UP HIGH AND REMAINED ON guard for the rest of that long night, but there were no further attacks. Devlin was furious that Stephen had returned to save him, but he was unable to give full vent to his anger since without Stephen’s help the creature might never have been destroyed.

As punishment for his impetuosity, Stephen spent most of the next day in search of their horses. Devlin, unable to move far because of his injured ankle, had nothing to do but think about the events of the night before, and he did not like his conclusions.

He had seen magical creatures before. The skrimsal. The banecats. Ordinary creatures given extraordinary size, strength, and viciousness through magical spells. Some said such creatures were bred by mages, others that they were accidental creations, caused when natural creatures were caught up in magecraft. Though they were magic, they were also living flesh, and had weaknesses that could be exploited. When cut they bled, and thus they could be killed.

The creature last night had been different, able to transform its substance from solid to mist and back again at will. It seemed to be a creature of pure magical energy, which meant it had been sent by a mage of great power. But which mage would have a motive to harm the Chosen One? Which mage would be able to key such a spell to the ring he wore? Devlin could think of only one man who fit that description.

Later that afternoon, his horse wandered back into camp on its own, nosing him familiarly, then gratefully slobbering down the grain that Devlin laid out. Stephen returned a short time later, having found his own horse. Apparently it had headed back in the direction of home until it was caught by a farmer.

They continued on their journey, staying in inns and farmhouses when they could. When forced to camp, they took turns standing guard. As the days passed and nothing unusual occurred, Stephen began to relax. But Devlin could not. He had a strange prickling sensation at the back of his neck, as if he were being watched.

Stephen tried on several occasions to engage Devlin in speculation about the origins of the creature that had attacked them, but Devlin refused to allow himself to be drawn in. He did not want to give any hint of his suspicions to the minstrel, lest Stephen find a way to spoil his plans. Again.

Devlin breathed a sigh of relief when the white towers of Kingsholm came into view. By then his nerves were stretched taut. He was constantly on edge, wondering when the next attack would come and what form it would take. The fact that no attack was forthcoming seemed an especially devious form of torture. A man could go mad with waiting.

They parted ways as they entered the city—Stephen to find his friends, and Devlin to the palace. There he reported the success of his mission to an indifferent Royal Steward. His duty accomplished, Devlin was free to search for answers.

Master Dreng resided in the old city, off a once fashionable plaza whose picturesque fountain had long since run dry. Many of the residences sported the small signs of decay, rusting ironwork, missing roof tiles, or crumbling masonry. In contrast, Master Dreng’s residence seemed newly built, with gleaming white stonework topped by glittering ceramic tiles in every hue of the rainbow. The effect was dazzling. And though the rest of the houses pressed close to each other, there were empty spaces on either side of the magician’s dwelling.

Devlin mounted the steps, and as he approached the door slowly swung open, revealing an elderly servant whose frail, hunched form made him seem as old as time.

“Master Dreng is not receiving callers,” the man intoned, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “Seekers of wisdom may return tomorrow, or you may leave your message with me and I will see that Master Dreng learns of your need.”

The servant leaned on the door, and it began ever so slowly to close. Devlin stuck his foot in the lintel. He thought about shoving the door open, but feared the servant would shatter to pieces.

Thrusting his right hand in the gap, instead he said, “In the name of the Chosen One and the Kingdom of Jorsk, open this door or forfeit your life.”

The ring on his hand sprang to life with ruby fire. It was a bit much, but it served its purpose.

There was a small gasp, and suddenly the resistance against the door was gone. Devlin pushed it open with his left hand and saw the retreating form of the servant as he scuttled away.

He stepped inside and found himself in an entrance hall. On the right, a wide stone staircase with worn carpet runners led to the upper stories. Ahead, where the servant had disappeared, there was a long hall with doorways branching off on either side. To his left was a room with scattered chairs and couches.

“Dreng!” Devlin shouted, but there was no answer.

He advanced down the hall and threw open the first door on his right. This proved a closet. The door on his left was a dining room. He continued on, finding in turn a small study, an empty room with no discernible purpose, a pantry, a small bedroom, and, finally, the kitchen, where he startled a young woman kneading bread. Making his apologies, Devlin retreated and returned to the front hall. He climbed the staircase, calling out the mage’s name.

On the second floor he found three bedrooms, one of which appeared to be the mage’s, and an elaborate bathing room. But there was no sign of Master Dreng. He began to feel foolish. What if the mage was not home after all of this?

At the end of the hallway was a small wooden door. Devlin opened it, expecting to find another closet, but instead found a narrow set of wooden stairs, scarcely more than a ladder. He looked up, and saw a faint light. “Dreng!” he called, as he began to climb.

As his head came up above the floor level, he saw that he was in a large room with a steeply pitched roof. Bookcases and cabinets lined the walls, while glowing white orbs set in wooden support beams provided a dim light. A large wooden table holding an empty decanter and a carelessly piled stack of books came into view next, with two stools beside it. Mounting the final stair, he looked around and realized the room covered the whole top floor of the dwelling.

“Dreng!” he called, for there was no sign of the mage.

“You needn’t shout,” Master Dreng replied. Devlin whirled, as Master Dreng stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the room. In his right hand he held a goblet of wine, which he raised in mocking salute. “So the Chosen One has returned safely. Again.”

His voice was slurred, giving testament that the mage was well acquainted with the contents of the wine cup.

Devlin had spent the last fortnight carefully planning what he would say, but all of his cool logic disappeared with that mocking toast. In a single motion he twisted his right forearm, and threw the knife, pinning Master Dreng’s right arm to a nearby post.

The crystal goblet shattered as it hit the floor, red wine running across the floor like blood. Devlin held the second knife in his left hand, so the mage could see it.

“That was just a warning,” he said.

Master Dreng gaped at him, mouth open in astonishment. “Have you gone mad?”

It was a fair question. Caerfolk wisdom held that those who disturbed wizards at their work were liable to find themselves transformed into goats. Or worse. And yet Devlin saw no use in dissembling. He favored a direct approach, and if this mage took offense, so be it.

“Just how far would you go to win your wager?” Devlin asked.

Master Dreng began to raise his left arm.

“I would not move, if I were you,” Devlin warned him. “I am thinking a dead mage is just as much use to me as a live mage, and for once the Geas seems to agree. So be still and answer my question.”

Master Dreng’s left arm fell down by his side.

Devlin advanced slowly across the room, skirting the worktable until he stood within arm’s reach of the mage. “How desperate were you to win that wager? So desperate that you had to help fate along?”

“What wager?”

“The wager on my early death,” Devlin growled. “You must have been disappointed when you realized your creature had not destroyed me after all. But you made a mistake. You should have known I would come looking for you.”

Master Dreng shook his head emphatically. “The lake monster? I had nothing to do with it. I’ve never even been to that uncivilized province.”

What trick was this? “You know full well I do not mean that pathetic beast. The creature you sent was a being crafted all of darkness, that could change its form from solid to mist and back at will. The being that came looking for my ring!”

Devlin closed the distance and pressed the knife blade against Master Dreng’s neck, holding the mage’s bloodshot gaze with his own. He was vaguely surprised that the mage made no move to defend himself.

“You are mad. Mad or drunk. Such a creature exists only in your imagination,” Master Dreng scoffed.

“Do you wish me to drag the minstrel Stephen in, to confirm what I say? No doubt he has set the encounter down already in wretched verse. But verse or plain talk, he will tell you he saw the same as I. A creature came out of the night, formed of the very fabric of darkness. And it knew exactly where to find the ring of the Chosen One.”

Devlin pressed the knife blade harder, until he drew the faintest trickle of blood. “I call upon all the Gods to witness that my words are true, by my oath as Chosen One.”

Master Dreng’s eyes widened, then his shoulders slumped as if in defeat. “I believe you,” he said. “But I did not send such a creature.”

“Why should I trust in your words? What oath does a mage hold dear?”

“You stupid farmer. I did not send the creature because I cannot. I have not such power. I am only a mage of the second rank.” His words held the ring of unwanted truth, and his mouth was twisted with anger and perhaps shame.

Devlin took a step back, withdrawing the knife. He had been so certain that Master Dreng was behind the attack, and yet the mage’s bitter outburst had convinced him that the man was innocent.

“How can that be? You are a Master Mage, the Royal Mage of the Kingdom. I felt your power in that damned Geas spell.”

Master Dreng lifted his left hand and pulled Devlin’s knife out of the support post, freeing his sleeve. He held the knife in his hand, weighing the balance, then threw it so it tumbled end over end and embedded itself in the wooden table.

“The Geas spell is not mine. It was crafted decades ago by Hildigunn and Lenart, two mages of the first rank. I but mouth the words they created, and even then I have barely the strength to perform the binding ritual.”

Devlin felt a faint hope die within him at these words. Deep inside, he had nourished the hope that someday the mage could be persuaded to lift the spell and free him. But if Master Dreng did not comprehend it then there was no hope that he could break it.