Devlin's Luck (48 page)

Devlin nodded. “So be it.” He raised his sword and plunged it into Duke Gerhard’s chest. The point skidded along a bony rib, then sank deep into the Duke’s heart.

The Duke’s body convulsed, arching up from the floor. Devlin leaned on the sword, driving the point into the ground, as the Duke’s body sank back and dark red blood began to flow sluggishly from the wound. The Duke’s eyes were still open, and he seemed more astonished than angry as his body twitched in its death throes. After long moments, he lay still.

“He is dead,” Devlin announced, relinquishing the sword. The impossible had happened. Against all odds, all expectations, Devlin had defeated the greatest swordsman in the Kingdom and proven his innocence. And yet he felt nothing, neither joy nor sorrow. It was as if all of his energy had been used up in the duel, leaving an empty husk behind.

He glanced down at his right hand, vaguely surprised to see that it was still attached to his arm. He grasped the wrist with his left hand and hugged the mangled arm to his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood.

Devlin turned to face King Olafur and the council. “By trial of arms I have proven my innocence. Is there anyone here who would deny that I am the Chosen One? Speak now, and be prepared to defend your words with steel.”

He turned slowly around the room, raking the crowd with his gaze, but none stepped forward, though any fool could see that Devlin could barely stand, let alone fight another duel.

His body ached, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down on the sand and surrender to the killing exhaustion of his wounds. And yet he could not. Not before he had finished what he had set out to do.

From the corner of his eye he saw a stir, as the crowd parted, and suddenly Lord Egeslic stood alone.

“Egeslic of Korinth, you conspired with the enemies of the Kingdom and joined with them to plan an invasion. For this treachery you are condemned to die at dawn tomorrow. The Guard will take you into custody.”

A low hum ran through the room, but no one challenged his verdict.

A red haze swam before his eyes, and Devlin turned back to the King and council. There was one final task. “Lady Ingeleth. Lord Rikard. Councilor Arnulf,” he said, naming one member of each of the three factions of the court. “I have reason to suspect Duke Gerhard was guilty of treason as well. Captain Drakken and the guards will secure his residence, and you will oversee the guards as they search his possessions to see if there is proof of his crimes. Do you understand?”

“But surely the Duke is—” King Olafur began.

“The Duke is condemned, by the hands of the Gods,” Devlin interrupted. Though the Gods had less to do with his death than did the four-foot length of steel protruding from the Duke’s chest. “The evidence is there to find, of that I am sure. And with your councilors watching the guards and each other, this time there will be no mishaps.”

King Olafur shrank back in his seat.

Lady Ingeleth stepped forward and bowed her head in the respect given to an equal. “I accept this charge,” she said.

Lord Rikard and Councilor Arnulf echoed her acceptance.

At this Devlin’s shoulders slumped, and he swayed on his feet. The energy that had sustained him drained away at the realization that he had fulfilled his duty. He closed his eyes and heard a low roaring in his ears, like the sound of the sea.

He felt a cool touch on his mangled right hand, and he nearly screamed in pain. “Lady Geyra!” a voice exclaimed, and he opened his eyes to see the shocked expression on the face of the priest.

“Quickly!” Captain Drakken said. “We don’t have much time.”

She was wrong. They had all the time in the world, for Devlin’s task was done. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, and he felt himself sinking deep into the velvety blackness.

Twenty-seven

THERE WAS THE SOUND OF VOICES RISING AND FALLING as they chanted in unison, but he could not make out the words. Slowly the fog began to clear from his mind, and he heard voices speaking, this time quite close by.

“The luck God smiles upon him,” an unknown voice said.

“No, it is simply that he is too stubborn to die,” Captain Drakken countered.

Devlin opened his eyes, and in the dim light he saw a wooden ceiling overhead.

“Just once I would like to awake from a fight and know where I am,” he said.

“He’s awake,” Stephen exclaimed, pointing out the obvious.

His friends crowded around the foot of his bed, while an older man in the green robes of a healer came over and laid his right hand on Devlin’s forehead while with his left he held Devlin’s left wrist. “I am Master Osvald and you are in Lady Geyra’s house,” he said. He held his grip for a moment, then nodded as he removed his hands. “How do you feel?”

Devlin thought a moment. “Surprised.”

He struggled to raise himself, but his right arm collapsed under him. Master Osvald grabbed his shoulders with surprising strength and boosted Devlin to a sitting position.

His right hand would not obey his command, so Devlin grasped it with his left and brought it before his eyes. White linen bandages were wrapped from his wrist, across his palm, and then wound around his fingers. The three fingers he had left that is, for the smallest two were now missing.

He stared at the maimed limb for a long moment in silence. Never again would he craft delicate works in metal. And yet two fingers were a small price to pay for the victory he had won.

“We were lucky to save as much of the hand as we did,” Master Osvald said, a touch defensively.

Devlin hastened to apologize. “I know your skills must be great, for I did not expect to awake again on this earth. The loss of the fingers is but a trifle compared to saving my life.”

“The deed was not mine alone. Many here helped. And we could have done nothing, had Brother Arni not preserved your life until we were summoned.” Master Osvald pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Now there is a one that missed his true calling.”

“You scared us half to death,” Stephen said. “I was certain Duke Gerhard would kill you. And then when we saw your injuries, I thought that he had succeeded after all.”

“I did not expect to survive,” Devlin confessed. “And yet I am glad that I did.”

And as he said the words, he realized that they were true. He had told himself that he was resigned to his death, even looking forward to it as an end to his burdens. But he knew now that had been a lie. He no longer wished to join his family in the Dread Lord’s realm. There was still a purpose for him in this world, and the pleasures that life brought. It was a strange irony. He had sought the post of Chosen One because he wished to die, only to discover in his service a reason to go on living.

“What of the Duke?”

“Duke Gerhard was indeed a traitor, as you suspected. It took two days of searching, but in the end they found a secret room in his residence. In there were papers outlining his plans.” Her mouth twisted in a grimace. “The Duke knew the invasion of Korinth would throw the Kingdom into chaos. He planned to use the confusion to seize the throne.”

“And he would be proclaimed a hero when he had expelled the so-called invaders,” Lieutenant Didrik added.

It was a clever scheme. It might well have worked. Even if the invaders had decided to keep Korinth for themselves, still the Duke could have won much credit as the man who had held the rest of the Kingdom intact against such odds.

“And Lord Egeslic?”

“The Baron was executed, as you had commanded,” Captain Drakken replied. “None of the court came to bear witness. It seems his former friends have forgotten him.”

So the people of Korinth had their long-overdue justice. He had not been able to save Magnus, but those who remained would no longer be tyrannized by an unjust lord.

“What made you suspect Duke Gerhard?” Lieutenant Didrik asked.

“Many things,” Devlin said. “His defense of the Baron was far too vigorous. And at the end, he could have chosen to yield. There was no reason for Duke Gerhard to choose to die, unless he knew that Lord Egeslic was sure to implicate him in the scheme.”

Devlin had always known that Duke Gerhard was his enemy. That the Duke’s mocking contempt was a mask for a burning hatred. Yet he had thought that hatred was for himself alone, the foreign peasant who dared stand against the Duke’s power. Not until he had challenged the Duke to the duel had Devlin begun to suspect that the Duke might be the traitor they sought within the court.

“King Olafur wishes to see you, when you are well,” Captain Drakken said.

“I am well now,” Devlin said.

“No,” Master Osvald replied. “Perhaps tomorrow. Now you will rest and regain your strength. And your friends will leave you, now they have seen for themselves that you have returned to us.”

It was two more days before Master Osvald deemed Devlin fit enough to answer the King’s summons. Even then he had to suffer the indignity of being conveyed to the palace in a carriage rather than on his own two feet, with a hovering attendant anxiously watching in case Devlin faltered. As soon as he reached the palace, Devlin dismissed the green-robed acolyte. The apprentice healer was reluctant to leave, but after a few strongly worded suggestions Devlin was able to make him see the error of his ways.

As Devlin approached the King’s apartments, the sentry guards stiffened to attention, then thumped their fists on their chests and bowed low in the formal salute, which custom said was given only to members of the royal family and the King’s Champion.

The salute made him uncomfortable enough, but when the guards straightened up, he could see the light of hero worship in their eyes. He was reminded suddenly of the village of Greenhalt, and how those there had regarded him as a legend come to life. Surely these guards knew him better than that. In time they would treat him as they had before.

“His Majesty bids you make yourself at ease, and he will join you in a moment,” the senior guard said, as the other swung open the door to the receiving room.

Devlin entered, and found himself in a small room, paneled with dark wood and an indifferent tapestry on one wall. There were a half dozen wooden chairs with brocaded seats, two small tables, and a small sideboard holding decanters of wine and other spirits. An impersonal place, fit for those who needed to cool their heels while awaiting the King’s pleasure.

Gratefully he sank down on one of the chairs, stretching his long legs out before him. Master Osvald had been right. Devlin’s strength was not what it had been if a simple walk from the main gate to the King’s apartments could tire him out. Still, he knew that in time he would regain his strength, and the angry red scars he now bore would fade until they blended in among his many other scars, both seen and unseen.

His hand was a different matter. His right arm was in a sling, and it would be another week before the bandages came off. Master Osvald had been very vague over how well the hand would heal. Either he truly did not know, or he was trying to spare Devlin’s feelings. At best, with three fingers he could train himself to hold the simpler weapons. At worst the hand might be a useless claw, and Devlin would be a cripple.

He wondered if this was the reason for the King’s summons. There was precedent for dismissing a wounded Chosen One from the royal service. The King had little reason to love Devlin, for the Chosen One had brought chaos to the court and proven the folly of the King’s councilors. True, Devlin had exposed a traitor, but that was not the same as gaining the trust of the nobles. By granting Devlin honorable retirement on grounds of his injuries, the King would appear generous while ridding himself of someone who had become a thorn in his side.

And not only would Devlin need to fight to keep his position, he also had to somehow find a way to convince the King to send the army to defend Korinth. Devlin had been furious this morning, when he learned that the King had still not dispatched the army, despite the clear evidence of treachery. The news had made Devlin leave the healers’ house, against their vehement objections.

He was still marshaling his arguments when the doors opened and King Olafur entered.

Devlin rose to his feet. “Your Majesty,” he said, with an attempt at a half bow. Even that was too much, for as he straightened up he felt light-headed.

“Sit, please,” King Olafur urged.

Devlin remained standing until the King took a seat, then he resumed his own.