Devlin's Luck (25 page)

Stephen looked as his father, seeing that for the first time in memory his father looked all of his sixty years. The responsibilities he bore weighed heavily upon him, and Stephen had no doubt that his father could use his help.

It would be easy to give in, and to do what his father wished. But a deeper instinct told him that it would not be right. There was one that needed him more.

“I cannot stay. There are others you can rely upon. You have but to summon Marten, and he will return from Tyoga and bring his family. But my place is with the Chosen One, for as long as he will let me. Someone needs to keep an eye on him, to make sure that he doesn’t destroy himself,” Stephen said, trying to add a note of lightness but knowing that he had failed.

He braced himself for one of his father’s fits of temper, but to his surprise his father appeared resigned, as if he had already known what Stephen would say.

“The two of you are an odd pair. Still you may be good for each other. As it is, you are not the foolish youth who ran away this spring.”

“I did not run away,” Stephen protested.

“As you say,” his father conceded. “I will ask one promise from you. When the Chosen One is no more, you must promise to return here, to serve our people.”

His father’s voice was grim, as if they were already under siege. Stephen’s gut tightened. Had matters gotten so much worse since he had left? Or had he simply been too oblivious to see the rising tensions? For a moment he felt tempted to change his mind, to tell his father that he would stay in Esker.

“I promise. But I pray that day is long hence.”

Devlin remained at Lord Brynjolf’s keep for another week, until Mistress Margaretha pronounced him fit to travel. He half expected that Stephen would choose to remain behind, but when he announced his intention to depart, Stephen began making arrangements as if his companionship was a matter of course.

A small part of Devlin was glad that Stephen would be along. Not just because Stephen knew the routes, but because Stephen’s presence kept him from the solitary brooding he was prone to. Not that he would call the minstrel a friend, for Devlin had forsworn friendship. It was rather that if he had to have a companion on the journey, Stephen was a fair one.

Stephen’s horse had lamed itself in the frantic journey to the keep, so his father provided a new mount. Devlin’s horse, being of better quality and army trained, had fared better, and after a week of rest was nearly as eager for exercise as his master.

Laden with good wishes and ample provisions, they left the keep on a crisp autumn morning. They traveled through the day, and in the early evening they made camp in a clearing not far from the road. They could have stayed at an inn; they had passed one not five miles back. But Devlin had had his fill of strangers, and was just as glad that he need accept no hospitality save his own.

After dinner, Devlin built the fire back up, preparing it for the night. Stephen sat on a log across from him, idly fingering his lute. He looked up, and asked, “Devlin, who is Cerrie?”

Devlin froze, his hand in the act of placing a chunk of wood on the fire. Then he carried through with the motion before turning around.

“Where did you hear that?”

“When you were ill, you called it out. It sounded like a name, am I right?”

Devlin wondered what other things he had called out in his fevered delirium. He hoped desperately that none in Lord Brynjolf’s house spoke the language of the Caerfolk.

“Who is Cerrie?” Stephen asked again, raising his head to look at Devlin.

He hesitated, wondering whether he should refuse to answer. Still, the man had saved his life. He deserved some measure of courtesy.

“Cerrie was my wife,” Devlin said, returning to his bedroll, and sitting down upon it.

“Was?”

“She is dead. Killed.”

“Was that when you got your scars?”

“No.”

“But—”

“We will speak no more of this,” Devlin said. One could push the limits of courtesy too far. Stephen had a right to his answers, but had no right to explore Devlin’s pain.

Stephen played softly on his lute for a while longer. Devlin, recognizing the tune as “Harvest Fair” breathed a sigh of relief. At least Stephen was not working on a new epic.

Eventually Stephen put the lute back in its case and rolled himself in his blankets to sleep. But Devlin remained wakeful, troubled by the memories Stephen had stirred.

The night was clear, and through a patch in the trees he glimpsed the Huntress, riding high in the sky. So the seasons had indeed turned. He thought for a moment. They reckoned time differently in Jorsk. By their calendar, it was the middle of ninth month, in the fifteenth year of the reign of Olafur. Devlin was no scholar, but from the appearance of the Huntress, he knew it must be close to harvest moon, as the Caerfolk reckoned the seasons. The time of the banecats’ attack.

Why had he not realized it sooner? Once he had been able to number the days and hours that had passed since Cerrie’s and Lyssa’s murders. Now there were whole hours that went by without him thinking of them. He felt as if they were slipping away.

He closed his hands into fists, as if he could hold the memories tightly in his grasp. The gem on the ring winked in the firelight and, releasing his hands, he pulled off the ring and held it in his palm.

If a seer had told him a year before that Devlin would become the Chosen One, defender of Jorsk, Devlin would have laughed. Who could have imagined such a thing? He was a metalsmith turned farmer, not a warrior. He’d lacked the stomach for violence and killing. His gentle spirit had been one of the things that Cerrie had claimed to love.

Would she even recognize him? If she came back to life, would she find any trace of the man he had once been? Or would he be a stranger to her?

Devlin clenched the ring in his fist and raised his arm, prepared to throw it away. A clap of thunder sounded, though the sky was clear, and he saw a light flash briefly in the woods to his right.

Holding himself absolutely still, he listened, and heard nothing. Nothing at all. The night was too quiet.

Dropping the ring on the ground next to his bedroll instead, he half rose, and pulled the axe from its sheath. Keeping his eyes on the direction where the flash had occurred, he picked a stone from the ground and tossed it in Stephen’s direction. There was no response.

He tossed a second stone and a third, until he heard a muffled groan. “Stephen,” he hissed.

“What?” the minstrel asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Quiet,” Devlin whispered. “There is something out there, and I do not think it means us well.”

He rose to his feet, still keeping his eyes on the forest. From the corner of his eye he saw Stephen unsheathe his sword, then pull on his boots. The minstrel stood up and joined him.

“What is it?” Stephen asked, following Devlin’s gaze.

“I do not know,” Devlin confessed, circling around the fire so that it was at his back. His eyes were still light dazzled, and he could see only vague outlines within the trees. There was nothing overtly menacing, yet he could not shake the feeling of dread that had overcome him. For himself he had no fear, but his was not the only life at risk.

His eyes scanned the perimeter of their camp, never resting in any one spot. “Keep your eyes sharp,” he ordered. “It may be nothing, but better safe than surprised.”

He heard a sharp gasp behind him, then the minstrel said, “Devlin,” in a quiet voice.

Devlin continued scanning the forest, wondering why Stephen had not finished his thought.

“Devlin,” the minstrel repeated.

Devlin turned, and his breath caught in his throat. At the edge of the clearing stood a giant. Easily twice the height of a man, he seemed formed out of the very night itself, for he was all darkness. No light glinted off that shape, no hints of gray or white alleviated its utter blackness. The creature had a head, but no signs of eyes or other organs could be seen. It made no sound, yet somehow it exuded a sense of incalculable menace and hatred. If pure evil had a form, this was it.

Stephen began backing away slowly, until he was on the left of the fire, by their bedrolls. Devlin was on the right, keeping the fire between himself and the creature. Behind him, he heard the horses whinnying in fear and wished he could give vent to his own fears as well.

The creature turned its head back and forth, as if considering which one of them to pursue. Then he turned toward Stephen.

“Get out of here,” Devlin ordered. This was no time for foolish heroics. Stephen, his eyes fixed on the dark monstrosity, did not move. He seemed paralyzed, or under a spell.

Devlin circled the fire and grabbed the minstrel by his shirt. He pulled Stephen back just as the creature reached for him. “Run,” he said, giving Stephen a firm push in the back.

Stephen took a few stumbling steps. The creature turned and reached one impossibly long limb for Devlin.

Devlin swung his axe. It passed cleanly through but instead of severing the arm, the limb simply re-formed behind his stroke. He tried again, with the same result.

His gut tightened with fear. How could he fight a creature that he could not harm? It was as if the creature was made of mist, or of the blackness of the night sky.

But there was nothing insubstantial about the blow that struck him in the chest. Devlin went flying backward, his axe dropping from his hand. He landed on his backside twenty feet away. Instinctively he threw his knives, but they passed through the creature to no effect. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled out his dagger, though he did not know what good it would do.

To his surprise, the creature did not pursue him, nor did it turn its attention toward Stephen, who was standing near the frightened horses. Instead the creature cast its head around, as if searching for something. And then it glided silently toward the blankets where Devlin had sat only moments before.

“What is it doing?” Stephen asked.

“How should I know? But be prepared to make a run for it, if we must.”

The creature’s arm elongated, stretching down until it touched the ground, then began pawing at the blankets. Devlin caught the glint of gold in the firelight, and suddenly realized what it was searching for.

As the creature clenched the ring within its fist, Devlin’s mind raced with the implications of the act. This was no chance encounter. The creature had been sent to find and destroy the Chosen One. Somehow, the creature had homed in on the ring of his office as if it were a magical scent.

But Devlin had taken off his ring, and now the creature was confused. Dropping the ring back to the ground, the creature turned in their direction.

There was but one chance. If they ran in opposite directions, the creature could follow only one of them. Thus the other was sure to live. Devlin knew what he must do.

“When I say
now
, cut the horses loose and run for your life. In the confusion we can make our escape,” he said.

“But how will I find you?” Stephen asked.

If his plan worked, there would be nothing left of Devlin to find. But he could not tell the minstrel that. Stephen had a stubborn streak of his own. Devlin thought furiously. “Circle back the way we came. We will meet at that inn we passed yesterday.”

“May the Gods go with you,” Stephen said.

Devlin took a few side steps, edging himself away from the minstrel and closer to the fire.

“Now!” he shouted.

Stephen slashed the ties that held the frightened horses. Screaming with terror, they ran off into the night. Stephen ran, too, in the opposite direction.

Devlin ran across the clearing, his course taking him on an angle that crossed the monster’s path. He needed to make sure the monster knew which of them he was to pursue. But he did not see the obstacle that caught his foot and sent him sprawling. As he hit the ground, the dagger flew from his hand and was lost in the darkness.

Devlin rolled swiftly to his side and rose, though his right ankle protested the strain. The creature swung its head in his direction. He knew he could not let the creature kill him. Not without a fight. He had to buy time for Stephen to make his escape. Devlin looked frantically, searching for a weapon. Any weapon. But his axe was gone, and his dagger was gone as well.

There was still the fire. Hobbling a few steps, he reached in and grabbed the end of a burning brand with his bare hand.

The end he held was unburned, yet still hot enough to hurt. But this pain was comforting to one who had worked so many years with hot metal.

“Devlin!” Stephen exclaimed.

“By Kanjti’s left ball,” he swore, as he realized the minstrel had returned. Now Devlin’s sacrifice would be for naught.

“Run for it!” Stephen urged.

He could not. His ankle was throbbing, and he could barely stand, let alone walk. “I cannot. But there is no reason for you to die as well. This creature was sent for me. Save yourself. Your people need you. There is naught you can do here.”

The creature advanced. Devlin swung the flaming brand in its direction. Unlike the sword, the flames caused it to pause, and for a moment he hoped he might somehow prevail. But then the creature reached one black hand into its middle and pulled something out. With both hands it formed a ball of utter blackness, which it then threw.