Devlin's Luck (23 page)

He ventured over to the map wall, his fingers tracing the mosaic. The soul stone that represented the Chosen One no longer shone with a ruby light. Instead it was dim and barely flickering, revealing that the Chosen was near death.

“Brother Arni,” Duke Gerhard said.

He whirled around, startled. He had not heard the Duke’s approach. But there he was, the King’s Champion, bowing perfunctorily before the altar.

“Your Grace,” Brother Arni said. “How may I serve you?”

The Duke made a wide circuit around the altar and came to stand beside him. His arm gestured to the map. “I had heard that the Chosen One was faring ill, and I came to see for myself.”

Brother Arni blinked at this unusual show of concern. Duke Gerhard had never before expressed an interest in the fate of any of the Chosen. It had always been Captain Drakken who was charged with overseeing their Choosing and, in time, recording their deaths.

But perhaps this concern was understandable, since the Chosen One had been sent on his errand by the King’s Council. As one of the chief councilors, Duke Gerhard was naturally interested in the success of the venture.

“The situation appears grave. But see here.” He gestured to Long Lake, then allowed his fingers to trace the route to the Chosen One’s present position. “I have watched faithfully every day. The Chosen One arrived at Long Lake, and has now made his departure. The Geas would prevent him from leaving until he fulfilled his mission, so it seems he has indeed destroyed the monster.”

“Would that were so,” Duke Gerhard intoned gravely. “But it could easily be that the monster has struck down the Chosen, and his companions are carrying him away to die.”

That grim interpretation had not occurred to Brother Arni.

“Send word to me when the Chosen is no more,” Duke Gerhard added.

“As you wish,” Brother Arni replied.

He waited until the Duke left, then turned his attention back to the map board. Had the stone grown darker or was that only his imagination? “I will pray that the Gods spare you,” he whispered, as if somehow the Chosen could hear him through the soul stone. Returning to the floor in front of the altar, he prostrated himself and began to pray.

Fourteen

DEVLIN WANDERED IN BRIGHT FEVER DREAMS, LOSING himself in the memories of precious days long past, when a youthful metalsmith had courted the proud Cerrie. They wandered hand in hand through the streets of Alvaren, secure in the belief that nothing could ever part them. He crafted beautiful jewelry and lethal weapons in his forge and gifted them to his love, taking fierce pride in her deadly skills. She inspired him to new heights of artisanship. His reputation grew, and the master smiths began to speak of admitting him to their ranks.

He ached to lose himself in the memory of those happy days, when the future had seemed full of promise. Before they had heard of the New Territories. Before he had made the fatal choice that damned them all.

But each time the memories turned dark, and he was forced to relive the moment when he had returned, to find their bodies in that blood-soaked field. “No!” he cried, but his demons gave him no rest, as he relived the horror again and again.

Hours or perhaps days later he awoke. He moved his arm restlessly and felt silken sheets under his hand; he realized that he was lying on a soft bed. He opened his eyes, and saw a green canopy overhead.

He heard the sounds of someone moving.

“
Ni
?” he called out.

An elderly woman, dressed in a lavender robe, bent over him.

“C’raad? Cionnas?” he asked.

The woman smiled and shook her head. “I am sorry, but I do not speak your language,” she said, placing her hand on his forehead.

He forced his mind to think a moment. “Where? How?” he asked, repeating his questions in the trade tongue.

The woman withdrew her hand and nodded. “The fever is gone,” she said. “You should rest easy, and not trouble yourself. For now it is enough to know that you are in the keep of Lord Brynjolf, and that you have been ill but will soon be well again.”

His memories returned in a rush. The lake. The battle with the skrimsal. Leaving Greenhalt, and traveling as the sickness came upon him. He remembered feeling oddly detached as the minstrel grew steadily more concerned, but after that there was nothing.

“Where is Stephen?”

“Young Stephen is fine, though worried about you. He will be relieved to hear that you are recovering. If you rest now, you may see him later.” She turned away and drifted out of his sight.

He did not want to rest. It seemed all he had done lately was rest from injury and illness. He hated himself for displaying such weakness, and for being dependent upon the care of these strangers who were no kin.

And he feared returning to his dreams.

“I do not want to rest,” he said firmly, struggling to sit up. He managed to rise on one elbow, which shook with exhaustion.

“But you will rest,” the woman said, returning with a cup brimming full with a dark liquid. “You will drink this.”

He hesitated.

“Drink this,” she said. “I promise, this time there will be no dreams.”

He wondered if he could trust her. He gazed at her, realizing only now that she wore the silver torc that proclaimed her a healer.

He took the cup from her and drank the bitter draft in a single gulp. “No dreams,” he said.

Stephen rose to his feet as the elderly healer shut the door to Devlin’s chamber behind her. “Mistress Margaretha,” he said. “How is he?”

Mistress Margaretha smiled. “The fever is gone, and his wits have returned.”

Stephen’s shoulders sagged with relief. The past three days had been torture, as they all waited anxiously to see if Mistress Margaretha would be able to save Devlin’s life. As Devlin lay in fever-soaked delirium, babbling in his birth tongue, Stephen had chastised himself over and over again with the fear that Devlin would die because of his neglect. The journey along the forest trail had been even more difficult than he had feared, but he had succeeded in arriving at the keep before sunset, only to hear Mistress Margaretha say that it might already be too late.

“I knew you would save him,” he said. “And I thank you.”

“Give your thanks to Lady Geyra, whom I serve,” the healer said tartly.

But then her face softened. “You did well, young Stephen. I had heard told that the Caerfolk were thickskulled, but now I know it in truth. Else he would have died at once from the fracture. Still, repairing the skull and his ribs were but a small matter,” she added, waving one hand as she dismissed skills that would have won her a place in any King’s court. “It was the poison from the beast that caused the fever, but now your friend is finally free from its grip.”

“Can I see him?”

“No. He is sleeping now, a true sleep at last. But you may see him later, when he awakes. For now, I advise you to eat, and then take your own rest. One patient is enough, I have no wish to add you to my care.”

“I will do as you say,” Stephen replied. In truth he was a bit light-headed, which he accounted to relief at the news that Devlin would survive after all.

Mistress Margaretha shook her head. “And as for your friend, you must convince him to take better care of himself. This is the second time in a year that he has been wounded nearly unto death. Twice now the Gods have spared him, but I would not test their mercy a third time.”

Stephen had turned to leave, but as the healer’s words sank in, he turned back to face her.

“Twice now, within the year? Are you certain?”

Devlin had been Chosen only four months ago. And as someone who had paid close attention to his career, Stephen knew full well this was the first time he had been seriously injured in that role.

Mistress Margaretha drew herself up to her full height and looked down her long nose at him. “Of course I am certain. Any healer worth her salt could tell you that, as soon as they laid hands on him. And how did you think he had come by those scars?”

What scars? Stephen kept his face carefully blank. “Of course,” he said, his mind spinning with the implications. Just who, or what, had Devlin been before he appeared in Kingsholm? Every time he thought he finally knew the man, he uncovered another layer of mystery. How many more secrets did this former metalsmith have?

Devlin slept, without the dreams that had troubled him before. When he awoke, he felt hale and full of energy. He tried to insist on seeing Stephen, but Mistress Margaretha, the healer, would have none of it. Instead she watched him carefully as he ate a meal of soup and bread, though he felt as if he could have eaten twice as much. Then she sent for servants, who fetched a movable bath and filled it with steaming hot water. Devlin insisted on bathing and dressing himself. While he scraped several days’ worth of beard off his face, he reflected on his strange luck.

He had known of the cracked ribs, but had not known that the bruise on his skull was a sign that it was broken as well. Nor had he suspected that the blood of the skrimsal would turn out to be a deadly poison. Either the skull fracture or the poison should have killed him. Would have killed him, if he had been left to the care of a village herbalist or acolyte healer.

Instead Stephen had brought him to Mistress Margaretha, a healer of the highest rank, in the service of Lord Brynjolf. So now all that remained of the battle were the patches of new pink skin that covered his hands and arms. He stretched experimentally, but his ribs gave nary a twinge.

By the time he finished shaving, he found his energy flagging, just as Mistress Margaretha had warned him it would. Still, he was well enough to sit in a chair when she finally allowed him to have a visitor.

Stephen refused to accept his thanks, and instead took Devlin to task for not revealing his illness sooner. He spent only a few minutes before being shooed out by the officious Mistress Margaretha, but Devlin did manage to make Stephen promise to convey a message of gratitude to Lord Brynjolf.

He sighed as he realized the extent of his debt to this lord.

“There now, you have tired yourself out,” Mistress Margaretha scolded. He did not have the heart to tell her his weariness was more of the soul than the body, and instead allowed her to chivvy him back into bed for a rest.

The weight of his obligations bore heavily upon him. He had neither kinright nor craftright to claim the hospitality of these folk. And yet they had treated him with honor, and the services of a healer of the first rank, as if he were a great lord or a son of the house. They had saved his life.

According to the custom of his people, such hospitality had to be repaid threefold. It was a heavy burden for one man to bear. Devlin had no kin who would join with him to repay the debt. He had not even the blessing of his name to give, for his name held no power in Duncaer. And yet somehow the debt must be repaid, for the sake of his honor.

He mused upon his dilemma until he fell asleep. When he arose, the healer brought an evening meal on a tray, and promised that on the morrow he would be able to leave the room and join the household.

After he had eaten, he sat by the fire, staring into the flames as he pondered his situation. The Geas that had driven him was quiet, yet he knew it was but a matter of time before it awoke.

He heard the door open and turned his head, expecting to see Stephen. Instead he saw a tall broad-shouldered man, dressed in thigh-high riding boots and leathers. His hair was more gray than blond, and his weather-beaten face spoke of many hours spent out of doors. Though no circlet adorned his brow, Devlin knew at once who this must be, and he rose to his feet.

“Lord Brynjolf, I give you greeting,” he said, managing a short bow.

Lord Brynjolf paused in stripping off his gloves and held up one hand. “Please no formalities. And it is I who should bow to you, my lord Chosen.”

Devlin remained standing. “I am deeply in debt to you for your hospitality,” he said.

“And I am in debt to you as well,” Lord Brynjolf said, advancing toward him. “Sit, sit,” he urged. “There is no reason we cannot talk like civilized men.”

Devlin sat. Lord Brynjolf turned the second chair so that it faced him, and sat down.

“I would have greeted you sooner. But you were in no state for visitors, and I had matters that could not wait.” He tipped his head, and regarded Devlin for a moment. “Mistress Margaretha performed wonders, as usual. I hardly recognize you as the man that Stephen brought in here.”