Devlin's Luck (15 page)

The boy came into the room, scuffling his feet. He was pale, and his eyes were swollen as if he had been crying, but he lifted his head and met Devlin’s gaze.

“Come here,” Devlin said, pitching his voice low as if the boy were a frightened animal.

Jan came over and stood between his mother and Devlin. He darted nervous glances at his mother, seeking reassurance, but she had no words for her youngest son.

“Look at me,” Devlin said. “Jan, you know that your brothers tried to kill Lord Dalkassar and his nephew tonight.”

The boy nodded. “Aye,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Did you know they would do this?”

Another quick nod.

“And how did you know? They have done this before, haven’t they? Other travelers, who came for the night and never left.”

Jan’s eyes went wide, and he began to tremble.

“I know this is painful but you must tell us.”

“Say nothing,” Hulda urged.

“Speak the truth. You are a good lad and you know this is wrong. Tell me what they have done.”

Jan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Aye. They have done this many times before.”

Devlin felt a savage burst of satisfaction. At last, here was the proof he needed.

“I am sorry, Ma,” Jan said, turning to face his mother.

“You viper! You are no son of mine,” she cried. She raised one arm and swung it, smashing her fist into the boy’s jaw.

Jan flew back, and his head hit the fireplace with a sickening crack. Devlin leapt to his feet, but it was already too late. The boy’s crumpled body lay on the floor, blood oozing from his skull. Frantically, Devlin pressed his fingers to the slender throat, then pressed his ear to the boy’s chest. Nothing. He lifted his head, starting at the chest, willing it to rise and fall, but it was over. The boy was dead.

“What have I done?” he whispered.

Lord Dalkassar had risen to his feet. “Is he grievously wounded?”

“He is dead.”

Lord Dalkassar’s face darkened with anger. “Kinslayer,” he said.

Devlin flinched, then realized that Dalkassar was berating Hulda.

“Foul creature who kills her own child,” Lord Dalkassar continued. “I could not imagine worse evil.”

Devlin rose, his gaze locked on Hulda. “I will see you hang for this. You and your sons.”

“You would have killed us anyway,” Hulda replied, still defiant.

“Yes. But now I will enjoy it.”

“After that, there is little to tell. I buried the boy, and hanged the inn-wife and her second son the next dawn. By then the eldest son had bled to death, having ripped open his own wounds trying to free himself from his bonds. I sent the lord’s nephew to fetch the magistrate from Skarnes. The magistrate brought laborers, and I stayed just long enough to see the work was in hand.”

Devlin Stonehand, the Chosen One, shrugged his shoulders, as if dismissing the incident, then reached down to pick up his tankard. Two quick swallows drained what was left.

Captain Drakken stared at him, wondering how he could sit so calmly before her. The first reports she had received from Skarnes had been so horrific that she had instructed the guards at each gate that when the Chosen One returned he was to be brought before her without delay, no matter what hour of day or night. And yet here he was, his eyes as dispassionate and his voice as even as if he were recounting a minor skirmish with an alley thief.

She lifted the pitcher of citrine. “Another?”

He nodded.

As she poured, she took the opportunity to study his face. The Chosen One was weary from his journey, and yet that alone did not account for his calm. He had looked much the same before she had sent him on this fool’s errand that had taken such a bizarre turn. She wondered if this was simply the resilience of youth, or if somehow the horrors he had witnessed had no power to touch him.

“I understand you found several bodies?” she prompted.

He took another sip of his drink, then narrowed his eyes. “More than several. One-and-twenty by the morning I left, but the magistrate’s men had just found a second pit. And those are only the ones they found. A hundred men could dig for a hundred days, and you would still never be sure that you had found all there was to discover.”

“Evil,” she said, as a cold chill ran through her.

“Evil indeed.”

“But what made you suspect the inn-wife?”

“It was not suspicion but merely good fortune that I was immune to her potions. And bad luck for her that I happened along that night. If I had come a day sooner, or a day later, I might have stayed there unscathed. The Myrkan nobles were her true targets. She only went after me because I had seen them there, and might raise awkward questions about their disappearance.”

“Lord Dalkassar did not call it luck. His letter was effusive in his praise.”

“Lord Dalkassar is grateful to be alive,” Devlin countered. “And I will wager the missive the magistrate sent was no paean of praise.”

Indeed it had not been. The magistrate’s letter had been scathing, furious that Devlin had passed sentence and executed justice in the King’s name without waiting for the magistrate to arrive. Never mind that such was the right of the Chosen One. The magistrate felt, perhaps with some justification, that if the villains had been kept alive then they might have been persuaded to reveal the full details of their crimes, and where their victims had been buried.

But in her heart, Captain Drakken knew that she would have done the same as Devlin. The inn-wife and her grown sons had deserved to die. Preserving their lives, even for a few days, seemed obscene in light of what they had done.

“The magistrate was distressed, but I’m sure he has had time to reflect on the wisdom of what you have done.”

“I would have stayed to help, but they would have none of it. As if being Chosen One made me too grand to dig in the dirt,” Devlin offered unexpectedly.

At every turn, Devlin deprecated his rank and accomplishments. It was as if he felt that he did not deserve such things. She added this tidbit to the storehouse of knowledge she had accumulated about the man.

This Chosen One was a puzzle indeed. The other Chosen she had known had reveled in their rank, even knowing that they were despised. The last Chosen, Gudbrand, had been a drunkard, and Asfid, who served before, had been a gambler. They had taken full advantage of their privileges, in their short careers. For like all of the Chosen in the last decade, neither had lasted longer than a season.

This man was different, and it had nothing to do with his humble origins. Rather she sensed a core of steel inside him, an inner strength to match the drive of the Geas and the power of the Chosen One’s office. Her instincts said she could trust him, and yet her long years of service in the Guard had taught her to be cautious. Court politics was a deadly game, even for one who had achieved the rank of Guard Captain. This Chosen One was an unknown quantity, who could be of help, or set all her schemes at naught.

“I am grateful that the killings will end,” she said. “But you did me no favors. If you had encountered a well-armed band of robbers, I might have been able to convince the King to allow the Guard to patrol the royal roads.”

“I would rather have faced a band of robbers any day than the horrors I found,” he said flatly. “I did not choose what happened. They did.”

His eyes flashed with anger, and she knew she had offended him. She sought to lighten the mood. “You did well,” she said. “Although I will think twice the next time I stay in an inn.”

Devlin smiled so briefly that it might have been only her imagination. “In Duncaer we have no such customs as inns. I now see the wisdom of our ways.”

This, too, she filed away, to think about later. She wished she had questioned him more closely when he first appeared in Kingsholm. But she hadn’t really expected him to survive the Choosing Ceremony. No one had. And then when he was picked, she’d expected that he would prove as useless as his predecessors. So what need had she to learn of him?

But Devlin was a survivor. He had the scars to prove it; she had seen them herself. He had survived the Choosing Ceremony. And then he had survived the inn-wife’s hospitality, as so many before him had not. She wanted to find out what else he had survived, but he had made it quite clear that he would not answer any questions about his past. And she could not risk alienating him by pressing him for answers.

Was Devlin typical of his people? She had scoured the King’s court to find what experts there were on the Caerfolk, but their store of knowledge had proven pitifully small, and often contradictory. Few people had made the long journey to Duncaer in the years since its conquest. Despite nearly fifty years of occupation by royal troops, and a government controlled by functionaries from Jorsk, Duncaer was no closer to being assimilated into the Kingdom than it had been at the start of the occupation. The people of Duncaer clung stubbornly to their own traditions, and as long as they paid their taxes, the King left them in peace.

Still, she did know a few things, such as that Devlin Stonehand was almost certainly not the name this man had been born with. The Caerfolk had names that changed to reflect their owner’s lives. By rights Devlin should have introduced himself by giving his birth name, trade, and the place where he resided. A formal introduction called for the names of his parents, and if married, equal honors to his wife and her family, and any children they might have.

And yet he had given but two names. One courtier had told her that this was simply a short name, used by those who had the most contact with Jorskians, and had adopted some of their customs.

This information was contradicted by a retired lieutenant, who had served in the occupying army. According to her, such a lack of names indicated a man who had been exiled for his crimes, or who had chosen to deliberately separate himself from society.

So which was he, this man who sat so calmly under her gaze, sipping at the tankard of citrine as if washing the road dust from his throat was his only concern? And how could she trust him, until she knew the truth? Or would she have to wait until he learned to trust her, and confided in her of his own accord?

Judging from the stubborn set of his jaw, that day might never come.

She sighed, and he apparently took that as a sign, for he rose to his feet. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said. “If you have no more questions, then I would seek my quarters. Even with the borrowed horse, it has been a long journey.”

Captain Drakken nodded. “Of course. Do not forget to give the Royal Steward a list of your expenses, and he will reimburse you. Court is in session, so barring a new crisis that requires your attention, you will be expected to attend the major functions.”

“Then I must hope I am soon called away,” he said, with no trace of sarcasm.

“Be careful. Court intrigue can be lethal, and now that you have returned, there will be those that seek to use you, for good or for ill,” she warned.

“They can but try,” he said.

Nine

IN THE WEEK SINCE HIS RETURN, DEVLIN HAD DONE his best to avoid the royal court and its denizens. The one exception had been the weekly court dinner, where his presence had been mandated by custom. That dinner had proven even more uncomfortable than the first. Now, rather than ignoring him, the younger members of the court sought him out, ostensibly to praise his success. But he knew they meant only to mock him, and were competing among themselves to see who could deliver the most elegantly veiled insult.

He knew that many would be pleased if he simply stayed in his chamber all day and night, as if he were a tool that could be placed on a shelf until it was needed again. But he was a man, not a tool—no matter what he had done, or what the Geas had done to him. He could not sit idly in that room, waiting and thinking. Not when every time he closed his eyes he saw the faces of his dead. And now they had a new face to join them, as young Jan joined his accusers.

He took to exploring the palace grounds. He found the practice yards and watched the guards as they trained, finding an echo of familiarity in their ordered exercises and calm discipline. Though the weapons differed, the discipline was the same, and he knew Cerrie would have found kindred spirits there. Watching as they practiced with their short swords brought to mind the fight in the inn.