Devlin's Luck (33 page)

As the Captain drew near, she caught his eye and gestured for him to join her. Turning to Thornke, he said, “Play on without me, I will be but a moment.”

Lifting his hands from the strings, he stood the harp upright, then rose. The music continued without him, as Thornke switched to a lively country dance. Few in the crowd seemed to notice when Stephen stepped offstage.

Captain Drakken drew him to one side, where none could hear them over the sounds of the music. “Have you seen the Chosen One?” she asked.

“He is not here.”

“Has he been here tonight?”

“No,” Stephen said, wondering just how much he should say. “But then I did not expect to see him.”

“Do you know where he has gone?”

“No, I do not,” Stephen said carefully.

Captain Drakken rubbed her chin, her eyes worried. “He gave his watcher the slip nearly six hours ago. The guards have searched the palace grounds, but there is no sign of him.”

“I would not worry.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “That is easy for you to say. You are not the one who has been the target of two assassination attempts in the last month. Two that I know of, that is. Damn his stubborn hide, why did he have to pick this night of all nights to disappear? Half the city is drunk, and the rest are doing their best to join them. The Guard is spread thin trying to keep order, and he picks this moment to slip his leash.” She shook her head slowly. “We have lost track of him before, but never for this long. I fear the worst may have happened.”

She seemed honestly distressed. Stephen hesitated. If Devlin had wanted her to know what he was about, he would have told her. Telling Captain Drakken what he knew seemed like a betrayal of his friendship. And yet if he did not tell her, she was likely to call out all the guards in search of the missing Chosen One, and should they discover Devlin, that would be an even worse betrayal.

“I did not expect to see Devlin because the Caerfolk do not celebrate the midwinter festival. For them this is the Day of Remembrance, and it is a solemn occasion,” Stephen explained.

“Remembrance of what?”

“Of their dead.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “He told you this?”

“No, he did not. But I know something of the customs of his people. This is a day for private mourning. Leave him be. He will return when he is finished. And if any man has earned the right to mourn in peace, it is the Chosen One.”

He turned to go, only to have Captain Drakken take hold of his sleeve. Slowly he turned to face her.

“What do you know that I do not?” she asked.

He returned her gaze steadily. “Nothing that is mine to tell you. I say again, leave him be.”

Captain Drakken held his gaze for a long time, then she nodded slowly. “I will wait until the first hour after sunrise,” she said.

Stephen returned to the hall and resumed his place on the stage, but his heart was not in his playing. He kept wondering if he had acted rightly. What if Captain Drakken was correct and Devlin was truly in danger? By persuading the Captain to wait, Stephen might have done his friend a grave disservice.

He told himself that he had to have confidence in his friend. Devlin could take care of himself. He had evaded his watchers purposefully because he wished to be alone, as was his right and the custom of his people.

Stephen had taken his training as a minstrel seriously, and his learning had included a smattering of the Caer tongue. Devlin had never asked, and Stephen had never found reason to tell him—especially after he had been witness to Devlin’s fever-born nightmares. Stephen had understood only a fraction of what Devlin had said, but it was more than enough.

Cerrie had been only one of the names that Devlin had mentioned. Who the others were that Devlin mourned Stephen did not know, but he had seen the depth of the pain that Devlin kept hidden from the world. He would have mourned with his friend if Devlin had let him, but Devlin had never offered. So instead Stephen did what service he could, and guarded Devlin’s secrets as if they were his own.

Devlin wept until he had no more tears, and still he could not touch the bottomless well of his grief. He meditated upon his sins and his losses until he felt light-headed from sorrow and the day’s fasting.

He listened intently, but he heard no sounds save the beating of his own heart and the wind sighing in the oak tree above. As the night wore on, he came to realize that his dead were not going to speak to him.

Perhaps Lord Haakon had already pardoned them, and they had no need to walk this earth. Perhaps they had chosen to walk the familiar hills of Duncaer rather than journey to this foreign land in response to his call.

Or perhaps they did not come because they had no wish to speak to him. Perhaps they feared he had forgotten them. Last winter solstice he had lain half-crazed with fever from the wounds he received in the struggle with the banecats. He’d collapsed in their den, expecting to die himself, only to discover a few days later that he was still alive. And that he had missed the Day of Remembrance.

It had taken him a year, but now he had atoned for his lapse. He had fulfilled his duties to Cormack’s family, ensuring they would want for nothing. And he had made his pledge to Lord Haakon, taking on the burdens of the souls that had perished before their time.

As the first rays of dawn illuminated the garden, Devlin finally felt at peace. He knew he had done all he could. All a mortal man could do, since he had not the power to restore the dead to life or to change the past. He had accepted the burden of his sins, and he would face the judgment of the Gods without fear.

He flexed fingers stiff with the cold until they could reach into his pocket and remove the flask and firestone within. He poured the alcohol on the bowl and set it alight with the firestone. The flames burned brightly, scouring the bowl.

When the flames were gone, he picked up the bowl and stored it within his cloak. Then he took a healthy swig of the kelje, feeling the alcohol warm his stomach and set his blood moving. With joints protesting his long stillness, he hoisted himself to his feet, leaning on the oak tree like an old man.

Then he began making his way back to the palace, and to those that awaited him therein.

Twenty

SLOWLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY, THE COLD OF WINTER began to give way to the warmth of spring. Like a great hibernating beast, the empire flexed its muscles and began to rouse itself to wakefulness.

First to appear were messengers from the provinces, bearing tales of winter hardships. Then came the nobles and their emissaries. And the court, which had languished in winter doldrums, stirred to life as new alliances were forged and old ones broken.

The palace, which had rung empty and hollow during the winter, was filled to bursting, as nobles who had not seen the capital in years felt compelled to make their presence felt. Even Devlin could see that there were far more courtiers present than there had been in the previous year, but it took Stephen to decode the message of their presence.

For the first time in many years, the nobles from the border provinces had come in force. Nearly every province was represented by its lord or lady.

Rikard, Thane of Myrka, came, and brought with him Lord Dalkassar, whose life Devlin had saved in the inn those many months ago. Devlin was invited to meet with Lord Rikard, and spent an uncomfortable half hour deflecting expressions of gratitude from Lord Dalkassar. As he left, Lord Rikard pledged his support to the Chosen One.

At the time Devlin did not recognize the significance of his words. Then came Lady Falda, who ruled the province of Denvir, which bordered Myrka on the west. Lady Falda insisted on meeting with Devlin in private, and though she did not make any pledges, the private meeting was enough to start court gossip swirling.

The next to arrive was Solveig, Stephen’s eldest sister and heir to Esker. Stephen professed himself glad to see his sister, though her presence meant that he could no longer masquerade as a mere minstrel. The revelation that Stephen was of noble blood, the son of the Baron of Esker, was greeted with great suspicion. Some courtiers looked at Devlin askance, as if Devlin’s well-known friendship with the minstrel was proof of a secret allegiance or hidden scheme.

Though all was calm on the surface, Devlin began to perceive a pattern in the elaborate rituals of the court. There was not one court, but three. At first glance, all were present to participate in a united court presided over by King Olafur. But if you looked closely, the illusion was shattered. The courtiers had divided into three factions.

The first was the old court, presided over by Duke Gerhard and Lady Ingeleth. Here were found most of the oldest and richest noble houses, those who formed the interior of the Kingdom and had seen little trouble in these years.

The second court was smaller, for it was made up of the border nobles and their allies, the ones who had suffered the most or feared that they would be the next to suffer. They had come to seek changes in the King’s policies, but could not agree as to the best course of action to take. Instead they jostled amongst themselves for power and influence.

And there was yet a third group, those who believed that they could not wait for the King to show leadership, but instead must take action now, with or without the support of the King and council. This was the smallest group, for few had the courage to openly display such convictions. But to his astonishment, Devlin found they were looking to him for leadership.

He had not sought power. And yet by virtue of who he was, he had somehow acquired it. Devlin was the first Chosen One in over a dozen years to survive his first quest. He had proven himself as a warrior and a force to be reckoned with. If he continued to survive and to fulfill his duties, he would become an even more potent symbol. Or so his enemies must have reasoned, for why else would they send assassins against him?

Devlin refused to be the figurehead for the disaffected courtiers. Instead he offered himself as a councilor, one voice among equals, as he would have in Duncaer. To any who asked, he gave the same message. There would be no simple answers to the problems that beset the Kingdom. They had to rely upon each other for help, and they must be prepared to make great sacrifices. Matters would get worse before they got better, and in the end they might never be able to restore all that had been lost.

Some found his message hard, and turned back to the familiar comforting platitudes offered by Duke Gerhard and the King. But there were a handful who were willing to listen, and with Devlin’s help they began making plans of their own.

This day they had gathered in Solveig’s chambers, which had become their makeshift council room. Solveig was very much like her father, Lord Brynjolf—plainspoken and practical, with none of her younger brother’s illusions and naïveté. She had witnessed firsthand the chaos that was overtaking the borderlands and knew how difficult it would be to restore order.

In addition to Solveig, her brother Stephen had come, to offer his knowledge of history and times when the Kingdom had faced similar challenges. Then there was Lieutenant Didrik. Though officially Captain Drakken remained neutral, Lieutenant Didrik’s watch schedule had been mysteriously rearranged so that he and his knowledge of military matters were at Devlin’s disposal.

They had been joined by the impetuous young Lord Rikard of Myrka, whose kinsmen Devlin had saved, and the cautious Lady Falda, whose province had long been allied to that of Myrka. And the most recent to join them was Erling of Vilfort. Erling spoke little, yet he had more reason than most to wish change, for it was his home that had been destroyed by raiders, whose deeds had as of yet gone unpunished.

“We need to prove that there is a better way. We need another success. Not one that is mine alone, but a victory of the common folk,” Devlin said.

“You did well against the skrimsal,” Solveig said. “If you do as well again with the next crisis, we may be able to win over other lords to our side. And with enough lords, we may be able to sway one or two council votes.”

It was a constant debate. There were forty great nobles and over one hundred lesser nobles in the King’s court. Only a dozen had seemed inclined to favor their views and, of these, none was a member of the King’s Council.

There was so much they wished to do. Release the Royal Army from its garrisons and send units to help patrol the roads and the borders. Open the King’s treasury to help those areas most afflicted. Begin arming and training the residents of the border provinces, so they could offer a first line of defense.