Devlin's Luck (30 page)

He turned on his heel and began to walk away, then spun around. “Do you want to know how the Geas feels, oh mage of the second rank? Have you ever seen an iron nail pulled toward a lodestone? Imagine such a force multiplied a thousand times. When the Geas commands, I have no will. If my horse founders, I must walk. When I can no longer walk, I must crawl. The Geas does not care if I arrive at my destination a bloody, useless cripple, just so long as I obey its commands. Gods! I nearly slew two guards in Esker simply because they wished me to speak with their lord while the Geas commanded that I continue to Long Lake without delay.”

He turned again and walked out of the dark foulness of that accursed temple and into the bright sunlight beyond.

Captain Drakken watched the Chosen One as he stormed angrily out. He was gone before she could think of a word to stop him. She looked over at Master Dreng, and saw that his face bore the same shock that she knew was written on her own.

“Is that truly how the Geas spell works?” She had known it was a compulsion, but not that it could be the living hell that Devlin described.

Master Dreng spread his hands apart. “I do not know. The Geas spell was meant to ensure that even if the Chosen One lacked a sense of honor or duty, he would still fulfill the responsibilities of his oath. That is how it is described in the scrolls of the masters.”

“But what if the one chosen already has a strong sense of honor?”

“Then I do not know. But I fear that in this instance the Geas spell may have done far more harm than good.”

Eighteen

“I STILL SAY MY PLAN WOULD HAVE WORKED. IF there had been a dozen decent archers in that village, there would have been no need for my reckless performance,” Devlin argued.

“They would still have needed someone to cast the net,” Stephen countered.

“Any fool could have done that,” Devlin said. He reached for the pitcher and poured himself another mug of the ale.

Captain Drakken leaned back in her chair and gazed down the length of her table. To her right sat the Chosen One, and across from him the minstrel Stephen. Ranging down the table were her six lieutenants, and her most senior sergeants. Competition for seating at the head table had been fierce, once her guards had learned that Devlin had finally accepted her invitation to dine with them. In the end she’d assigned the seats by simple seniority.

The rest of the tables in the Guard’s dining room were full, as all those not on duty had gathered within. She made a mental note to praise Nikulas the cook. The food had been up to its usual high standards, but his true genius had shone in the choice of beverage. From somewhere her cook had managed to procure a cask of ale brewed in Duncaer, which was served in pewter tankards to those at her table.

Upon tasting the ale, Devlin’s eyes had brightened and he had been lavish in his praise of her hospitality. She had a tankard herself for the sake of politeness, though she could not see the attraction of the bitter brew. But no matter. The Chosen One was consuming enough ale for the entire table, though as yet his words were unslurred. Still, the drink had some effect. She’d wager that he’d spoken more freely in these past two hours than he had in all the months since he’d arrived in Kingsholm.

Devlin had described the battle with the skrimsal in matter-of-fact tones, assisted by cheerful observations from the minstrel. When Stephen reminded Devlin of how he had been wounded by an arrow shot by his allies, Devlin had surprised them all by bursting into laughter.

Her guards had hung on every word.

A part of her listened to his tales while another part dwelt upon the part that he did not share. They had both agreed that nothing was to be said of the elemental creature. They did not want the sender to know how nearly he had succeeded. Better that the sorcerer and his accomplice remain in the dark, while she and her guards tried to determine if the traitor lingered within Kingsholm or had already taken his leave. All had been quiet in the four weeks since Devlin’s return to Kingsholm, but that did not mean the threat was gone. She would not be satisfied until she had found the traitor, and chained him in the guardhouse to await his fate.

“It is as I told Lord Brynjolf,” Devlin continued. “I did the fisherfolk no service. What they needed was someone who could teach them their own strength.”

“You mean they should have attacked the creature on their own?” Lieutenant Embeth asked.

“Of course,” he said. “If they had but put their minds to it, they would have come up with a scheme, one like mine or perhaps better. United they could have destroyed the beast.”

“But surely some of them would have been killed in the attempt,” Lieutenant Didrik pointed out.

Devlin shrugged. “What of it? If one were killed, even two or three, so be it. They would have died knowing they gave their lives to save their kin. Instead the fisherfolk waited passively while more than a dozen of their own were slain. It makes no sense.”

“Not everyone is accustomed to thinking in such cold-blooded terms,” Captain Drakken said. “Few have the ability to command, and to make the hard decisions that need to be made in times of peril.”

Devlin shook his head. “They are sheep because they wish to be. You will not convince me otherwise.” He turned to Lieutenant Didrik. “Didrik, if it had been you at that lake, what would you have done?”

“Evacuated the area and sent for reinforcements,” Didrik replied.

Other guards began to argue with the lieutenant, describing how they would have handled the situation. One suggested poisoning the lake, which seemed a good idea until someone else pointed out that the poison would also kill the fish that the villagers depended upon.

Devlin leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-closed as he listened to the friendly wrangling. He seemed at his ease, as if he were just another of the young officers in her command.

Around the room, the gathering began to break up into small groups. Those who had night watch had sipped citrine instead of wine with their dinners, and now rose and took their leave. Those who remained clustered in small groups, talking. One group began a dice game at a corner table. And across the room, a half dozen of the guards began a game of darts.

She noticed Devlin’s gaze wander toward those who were playing at the dartboard. He watched the game for a few moments.

She tapped his elbow, and he turned his attention back to her. “Do they play the game in Duncaer?” she asked, indicating the board.

“We have a similar game, although we do not use those small feathered things.”

“Darts. They are called darts.”

He nodded.

“If you do not play with darts, then how is it done?” she asked, suddenly curious.

Devlin bared his teeth in a grin. “What say you, minstrel? Shall I show them how we play the game in Duncaer?”

The minstrel looked momentarily confused, then he returned the grin. “Would you give me leave to make a few wagers first? A full purse does no one any harm.”

Devlin appeared to think for a moment, then shook his head. “Letting you fleece her guards would be poor repayment for the Captain’s hospitality,” he said.

“Another time,” Stephen replied.

Now she was truly curious.

“May I?” Devlin asked.

“Of course.”

He rose to his feet and lifted the pewter tankard of ale, draining it in a single gulp. Then he banged the tankard on the table. As heads began to turn he called out, “Clear a path,” in a voice loud enough to cut through the drone of conversations.

Heads turned, but no one moved. “You there, at the painted board. Clear a path,” he ordered.

The minstrel rose and walked around the table, gesturing for the guards to move to the sides of the room, leaving a clear path between where Devlin stood and the dartboard. Reaching the board, Stephen pulled out the darts, and placed them on a nearby table.

Devlin lifted one booted foot to the chair, and pulled out a thin metal blade. Then he repeated the same with his other boot. Drakken rose to her feet, wondering what he would do next.

Devlin held the blades, one in each hand. She waited for him to advance to the target, but instead he stood there, and gave the room a mocking bow. “This is how we play in Duncaer,” he declared.

As he straightened his hand flashed. The first knife appeared in the center of the board. Then the second. He twisted his arms and suddenly two more knives appeared. A third knife appeared in the board, and then he threw the last.

She watched as it flew through the air, tumbling end over end until it embedded itself in the target, striking so close to the first knife that the metal rang.

There was stunned silence as Stephen walked over to the board. “Dead center,” he announced, as if there had been any doubt.

Never had she seen such skill. It must be twenty paces or more to the board. And Devlin had barely taken aim. Indeed, he had thrown the first knife so quickly it had not been till the knife appeared in the target that she had known what he had done.

“Praise to the Chosen One, a man of many skills,” she said, lifting her wineglass.

“Praise!” the guards shouted, lifting their own glasses in turn. Excited chatter broke out as the guards clustered around the target, to witness his accomplishment with their own eyes.

“That was quite a feat,” she said, resuming her seat.

Devlin shrugged, taking his own seat. “It is a common game among the peacekeepers in Duncaer. For a while in my youth it was a fashion to play.”

“Where did those last two knives come from?”

“You will have all my secrets now,” he said. Then he extended his left arm, turning it over and rolling up the sleeve, revealing a leather harness strapped to his forearm.

“Flex the right muscle and the knife is released,” he said. “Simple.”

“Convenient. An assassin’s weapon.”

“Or a wise man’s,” Devlin countered. “The hidden knife gives no insult to the host, and yet is instantly ready in time of need. If I had had these at that wretched inn I could have disarmed that clumsy boy in a heartbeat.”

Stephen returned to the table, bearing the four knives. She watched as the Chosen One carefully inspected the blades before returning them to their hiding places. Then he rose and gave a half bow.

“Captain Drakken, I thank you and your guards for your hospitality.”

“And I thank you for a most interesting evening,” she said. She was certain the guards would talk of nothing else for days to come. “Remember that we are at your service. You are welcome here whenever you wish.”

“I will remember,” he promised.

After that night, the guards treated the Chosen One as if he was one of their own. A few of the younger guards openly worshiped him. They took to drinking bitter ale instead of wine, and cropped their hair short in the way of the Caerfolk. And they pestered Master Timo until he made them throwing knives, and began to practice their own skills. This she had no objection to, until one fool severely cut his hand when he flexed the wrong muscles while wearing the knife in a forearm sheath.

She was about to forbid the knives altogether when Lieutenant Didrik took matters into his own hands. He asked Devlin to teach him and the young guards the art of the throwing knives, in return for lessons at swordplay. To her surprise, Devlin agreed.

She observed him one afternoon. Over and over again he demonstrated the throwing technique, so slowly that each move could be plainly seen, and then corrected each guard in turn as they tried to copy his movements. His patience with their clumsy efforts was remarkable. It was as if he had been teaching all his life.

And he applied himself to his sword training with a grim dedication. Though slower to learn than a youth would have been, Devlin’s strength and size helped make up for that lack. As did his relentless practice. Indeed the Chosen One spent most of each day training with one weapon or another. His self-discipline was contagious, and she noticed that her own guards trained all the harder for his example.

Devlin occasionally came to the Guard Hall to join them at their meals, or to spend an evening. He seemed friendly, and from time to time would join in the conversation. But there was a limit to his camaraderie, a line he would not cross. He spoke of Duncaer and his past only in the most general terms. Never did he mention any family or friends, or give even a hint as to why he had sought the post of Chosen One.