Devlin's Luck (49 page)

“You are well? It is not too soon for you to be away from the healers’ care?” King Olafur asked, gazing at Devlin with apparent concern.

“The healers did fine work,” Devlin answered. “It will take time, but I am well enough to serve.”

“Good, good,” King Olafur said, his head bobbing nervously. His eyes darted around the room, then he leaned forward. “They have told you of Gerhard? How he was plotting to take my throne?”

“Yes,” Devlin said. “Along with Lord Egeslic and his allies, whoever they may be.”

The Duke’s papers had contained evidence of his plans, but the foreign allies remained as yet unknown. Selvarat was mentioned, but so were Nerikaat and the Green Isles. Or it could be another country, as yet unnamed.

The papers had also contained the name of Freyja, confirming that the Duke had been behind at least two of the attempts on Devlin’s life. The Duke had assured his allies that Devlin would not live to see Korinth, but he had chosen his tool poorly. For Freyja had been too cautious, biding her time until she was certain to escape unscathed.

In the end, it was the Duke’s overconfidence that had proven his undoing. Even at the last, he had not seen Devlin as a real threat.

“Gerhard served me for a dozen years. I relied upon his counsel. I trusted him with my life,” King Olafur complained. “Now what am I to do? Who can I trust to take his place?”

Why was the King asking for his advice? Devlin knew little of politics, and even less of how this King’s mind worked. Whatever he said he must be careful, lest he give offense.

“I do not know,” Devlin began. “But the army needs a General and you need a councilor. You must find someone you trust, without delay.”

King Olafur shook his head sadly. “Even you can see that the court is riddled with intrigue. Two of my nobles have proven traitors. Who is to say there is not a third or a fourth?”

The thought had crossed Devlin’s mind as well. “Your fears are well-founded, but you cannot let them keep you from acting. There is very little time left.”

“So you think there will be war?”

“Yes,” Devlin said, though he knew the King would not want to hear it. “I think war will come, sooner rather than later.”

“So do I.”

Devlin stared at King Olafur in amazement. He had thought the King blind, oblivious to the problems that beset his people.

“I surprised you, I see,” King Olafur said.

Devlin nodded.

“I know your opinion. You think me a fool.”

This was dangerous ground indeed. “I thought you illcounseled. And indeed that was so, for surely the traitor Gerhard has been playing on your fears and keeping you from acting as your own wisdom dictated.”

There was a long moment of silence. “If only I had wisdom,” King Olafur said softly. “I thought I was protecting the Kingdom, but instead under my rule matters have grown steadily worse. I am unworthy to wear the crown of my fathers, and my weakness will be our undoing.”

The King hung his head, as if he had already resigned himself to defeat.

“That is the sound of folly,” Devlin said harshly, as if he were reprimanding one of his troops. The King had been coddled enough. It was time for plain speaking.

King Olafur raised his head.

“No man knows what he can do until he is put to the test, and there is no one who knows that better than I. If a simple man can become Chosen One, then surely one of your royal blood can find the strength within him to lead his people in their time of need.”

Hope warred with doubt on the King’s features. “But what if I fail?”

“Far better to try and fail than not to try at all. Be bold. Lead. You will make mistakes, but you will learn from them. The only true failure is in not trying.”

King Olafur rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Harsh words, but better counsel than I have heard in a long time.”

“I live to serve,” Devlin said. It was a commonly uttered platitude, yet in Devlin’s mouth it was the simple truth.

The King nodded slowly. “If I am to lead as my fathers before me, then it is time we returned to their ways. For centuries, the Chosen One was also the General of the Army, who led the defense of our realm in times of peril.”

Devlin’s heart sank. So the King intended to replace him after all.

“But Your Majesty—” he began.

“I will not be gainsaid. You are the only one I can trust, and you have proven your loyalty to the Kingdom. I will name you councilor and General of the Army.”

“Me?” He had barely managed to lead his force of thirty on the expedition to Korinth, and now he was to lead thousands? It was unthinkable. And yet…

“The council will not like this,” Devlin said. Many of the councilors already felt he had too much power. What would they think now that he was their equal?

“The needs of the Kingdom come first. The army needs a General, and I need someone I can trust. My councilors will accept you or they will be replaced,” King Olafur replied. His voice was firm, and for the first time since Devlin had known him, the King appeared decisive.

As General of the Army, Devlin would have the power to ensure that the Kingdom was ready to meet its foes, whoever they might be. And as councilor, he could influence the King and council to the path of reason. It was all he and his friends had hoped for, when they had fought so hard for change. He was tempted to accept, but a small voice within him urged caution.

“You honor me greatly with your trust,” Devlin said. “But think well before you make this decision. I am a man accustomed to plain speaking, and I will not change simply because you name me councilor.”

“As long as you speak honestly, I will be well served.”

“And I will insist on sending the Royal Army to Korinth. Without delay.” His mind was already planning the expedition. Mikkelson could lead the relief forces, given a suitable promotion. He had already proven his loyalty; it was time to give him a rank to match his capabilities.

“I expected nothing else.”

Devlin rose to his feet. “Then I accept this honor,” he said, extending his left hand in the clasp of friendship. “And I swear I will serve you faithfully. Between us we will make this Kingdom strong and safe once more.”

After a moment of hesitation, King Olafur took Devlin’s hand in his own. “Now I see why your followers love you,” he said. “You have given me hope, something I have not felt in a long time.”

“I will give you more than hope,” Devlin vowed. “I will give you victory.”

About the Author

PATRICIA BRAY inherited her love of books from her parents, both of whom were fine storytellers in the Irish tradition. She has always enjoyed spinning tales, and turned to writing as a chance to share her stories with a wider audience. Patricia holds a master’s degree in Information Technology, and combines her writing with a full-time career as an I/T Project Manager. She resides in upstate New York, where she is currently at work on the next volume in The Sword of Change series. For more information on her books visit her Web site at
www.sff.net/people/patriciabray
.

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Devlin’s Honor

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DEVLIN OF DUNCAER, CHOSEN ONE OF THE GODS, Defender of the Realm, Personal Champion of King Olafur, Royal Councilor, and General of the Royal Army, muttered to himself as he strode through the corridors of the palace. The few folk who saw him took one look at his grim face and discovered urgent business elsewhere. It was not just his appearance that gave them pause, though his green eyes and black hair—now streaked with white—marked him as a stranger here: the first of the Caerfolk to enter into the service of their conquerors. Rather it was his reputation they fled, for it was well known that the Chosen One had little patience for fools who troubled him, and his power made him an enemy few wished to have.

As Devlin reached the chambers that served as his offices, the guard on duty took one look at his face and swiftly opened the door, forgoing the formal salute. Devlin slammed the door shut behind him.

Lieutenant Didrik looked up from his papers. “The council meeting went as we expected?”

Nearly four months ago, when Devlin was named General of the Army, Lieutenant Didrik had been detached from the City Guard to serve as Devlin’s aide. Some thought the lieutenant too young for the task, but his age was offset by his proven loyalty and friendship. And Lieutenant Didrik knew Devlin well enough to recognize when he was truly angry and when he was merely frustrated, as now.

“The council sits and talks and does nothing,” Devlin said, unbuttoning the stiff collar of his court uniform. “And the folk in the palace flee like frightened sheep whenever they catch a glimpse of me.”

Lieutenant Didrik nodded. “It would be easier to convince them you were tame if you did not growl.”

“I do not growl.”

“Yes, you do.”

Devlin gave a wordless snarl and began to pace the small confines of the outer office. Lieutenant Didrik remained seated, his eyes following Devlin’s restless movements.

Devlin paced in silence for a moment as he tried to shake off the frustration of that afternoon’s council session. Four hours, and little enough to show for it. He was not made for such. In the past he had labored as a metalsmith and a farmer. Both were hard trades, but each carried the reward of his being able to see the fruits of his labors. Now the fates had conspired to turn Devlin into a politician. No one knew better than he how ill-suited he was for the task. Court politics was about compromises and alliances, jockeying for influence and trading favors. It took skill to navigate the treacherous waters of the court, and time to get anything accomplished. Time they did not have.

Worse, Devlin’s voice was but one of sixteen, and no matter whether he whispered or shouted, he could not bend the council to his will. Instead he had to reason, cajole, flatter and bargain, and try to be content with the smallest of victories.

Such as the victory he had achieved today. “There is some news,” he said, dropping into a wooden chair across from Lieutenant Didrik’s desk. “The council approved the proposal for recruiting trained armsmen. Word is to be sent to all the provinces at once. With luck we should have a hundred before the snows, and perhaps a thousand by springtime.”

Lieutenant Didrik leaned back and smiled. “But that is excellent news. Why did you not say so at once?”

“Because it is a victory, but at a cost. I had to agree not to urge the King to train the common folk who live in the danger zones,” Devlin said, running the fingers of his good hand through his short-cropped hair. He was still not convinced that he had done the right thing, and yet even those councilors who normally supported him had been united in their opposition to his proposal. To Devlin it was simple logic: make use of the people who had the most to lose in an invasion, teach them to be effective fighters rather than see them slaughtered.

However the councilors’ concerns were not for the present dangers but for their future power. A peasantry that was trained in the arts of warfare would be far harder to control. The common folk might even take it into their heads to rise up against those they perceived as unjust. Devlin acknowledged the risk but argued that those who ruled wisely had nothing to fear. His words had fallen on deaf ears.

“Perhaps there will be no need. Since Major Mikkelson and his troops repelled the landing force in Korinth, there has been little trouble along the borders. It may be that the worst is over,” Lieutenant Didrik said.

Devlin shook his head. “I do not believe our enemies will give up so easily.”

They were still not even sure who their true enemy was. The invaders in Korinth had been a mercenary troop, in the pay of someone whom they could not even name. It was only chance that had led Devlin to discover the plot in time to repel the invasion. The Royal Army had made short work of the would-be invaders, but Devlin knew better than to suppose that this was the end of the threat.

Yet where would the enemy attack next? Devlin and his advisors had racked their brains trying to divine the strategy behind the enemy’s seemingly random attacks. Without knowing whom they were facing, they were reduced to guessing.

“The armsmen will help,” Lieutenant Didrik said.