Devlin's Luck (29 page)

He thought the matter well forgotten, but a week later he returned to his quarters to find that he was summoned to meet with the King on the next morning. The invitation was politely worded, but nonetheless it was a command. Devlin wondered at the reason for this summons. Could it be that the King had a task for the Chosen One? An errand that would take him far from this wretched city? He could but hope.

The next morning, he rose before dawn as was his custom, then went down to the courtyard to perform his exercises. As the rest of the palace began to stir, he made his way back to his room, summoning a chamberman with hot water so he could bathe the sweat from his body. Then he dressed carefully in the court uniform of the Chosen One.

As he left his room shortly before the appointed hour, he found a chamberwoman waiting to escort him to the King’s apartments. He followed her as she led him down the stairs and through the corridors until they reached the older section of the palace. Here the floors were not wood parquet, but marble tile, worn smooth with age.

Only the presence of a guard standing at attention in the hallway marked the entrance to the King’s own apartments. As Devlin approached, the guard knocked once on the door with her fist.

“He is expecting you,” the guard said, and as if on cue the door swung open behind her.

Devlin had expected to find himself in an audience room, or perhaps an office, but instead the door revealed a small parlor, scarcely larger than his own quarters. The dark-paneled walls were hung with gaily colored silk tapestries, and while there were no windows, elaborate filigreed sconces lit the room brightly. In the center of the room was a small table, where King Olafur sat opposite his daughter Ragenilda.

“Your Majesty. Your Highness,” Devlin said, bowing first to the King, and then to the young Princess. He hoped his surprise was not evident in his face.

King Olafur acknowledged the bow with a brief inclination of his head. “Chosen One, this is my heir, the Princess Ragenilda.”

The Princess rose from her chair and gave a brief curtsy. “My lord Chosen One,” she said solemnly, her bright blue eyes fixed on his.

Devlin felt acutely uncomfortable. The King was his master, but how was he supposed to behave toward someone who was both a child and royal? He had no training for such situations.

“Princess, I am honored by your presence,” he said at last, bowing again.

The Princess resumed her own seat, and the King gestured that Devlin should join them as well. As Devlin sat at the table, two servants came in, bearing bowls of fish porridge and then a platter of pastries. Glasses were filled with a pale purple liquid, and then a cup of kava was placed in front of the King. A second cup was offered to Devlin, and he seized upon it as if it were a lifeline.

He realized two things in that instant. First, the presence of the young Princess made it unlikely that the King had an errand for the Chosen One. And second, that he was expected to break his fast with the King and the Princess, as if he were accustomed to rubbing elbows with royalty. Devlin felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine, and for a moment he wished himself far from here. Anywhere would be better than this, even another confrontation with the skrimsal.

King Olafur took a sip of his kava, then took up his spoon and began to eat his porridge. The Princess did the same, and, after a moment, Devlin followed their example. The fish porridge was flavorful, but somehow in his imagination he had thought a King would have a taste for far grander fare. But perhaps the simpler food was in keeping with the Princess’s presence.

“My daughter wished to meet you for herself,” King Olafur said, after a few moments of silence. “I thought such an informal setting would be more to your liking.”

This was an informal setting? With a guard outside the door, and at least two servants always in the room with them? He wondered what the King thought to be a formal occasion, and then realized that he did not want to know.

“It has been many years since I spoke to someone from Duncaer,” King Olafur said. “So tell me, are my subjects there still loyal to the empire?”

Devlin took a sip of the rich kava, to give himself time to think. The Geas bound him to tell the truth, but he also knew there was nothing to be gained from insulting this man.

“They are as loyal as they have always been,” Devlin said. The Caerfolk held little love in their hearts for the conquerors, but they were wise enough to know that rebellion was folly. As long as the Jorskians controlled the passes leading into the mountains, and their garrisons held the great city of Alvaren, there was little that the Caerfolk could do. But should the occupying army ever weaken—

“That is good to hear,” King Olafur said, apparently oblivious to the true meaning of Devlin’s words. “And now with your example perhaps others of your folk will choose to enter our service.”

Devlin shook his head. “I doubt there is any man or woman who would want to follow in my footsteps.”

A servant coughed, and he realized that his answer had been less than politic. “Only the Fates can decide who will be called to be the next Chosen One,” Devlin added.

The King set his spoon down, and the servants cleared away all three bowls of porridge, replacing them with plates of rare spiny-fruit from the south. The princess began to peel hers with a small knife. Devlin kept his hand firmly on his cup of kava. He had eaten enough for courtesy’s sake, and had no wish to make a fool of himself trying to peel apart the delicacy.

But his gaze lingered on the Princess Ragenilda, who had remained silent so far. She was a pretty child, with wide blue eyes and long blond hair done in elaborate braids. Her face was solemn, and she was entirely too still, too self-possessed, for one who held only nine winters to her credit. He wondered if she ever smiled, and what it would take to set her at her ease.

“Princess, was there some reason why you wished to meet me?” Devlin asked.

“Were you scared?” she asked.

“I do not understand.”

Princess Ragenilda took a last bite of the spiny-fruit and wiped her fingers carefully on the linen napkin. “Were you scared?” she repeated. “When you fought the lake monster?”

“No,” Devlin said.

“But they say it was as big as a tree. And it spit fire,” she argued.

Devlin winced, wondering what version of the tale she had heard. He had said little in his report to the council, and after their return Stephen had declared that he would make no song of the event. But no doubt there were other minstrels who felt free to embroider the tale to suit their audience.

“It was large, yes,” Devlin said. “A dozen times as long as your father the King is tall. But it did not spit fire.”

“And you were not afraid?”

“I had a duty to do. I knew if I did not kill it, then it would kill me, and go on to kill others. And then I was angry, because it stole my axe.”

“Really?” The Princess leaned forward, and there was a faint smile on her lips. “It stole your axe?”

“In a way, yes,” Devlin said. “So I had to kill it.”

The Princess giggled.

“The Chosen One showed great courage. Would that all my servants were as dutiful in their tasks,” King Olafur said.

At his words the Princess’s brief animation faded. Recalled to her duty, she sat back in her chair, once again the picture of propriety. The young girl he had seen was gone, replaced by the Crown Princess of Jorsk. Devlin felt a flash of sympathy for the young Princess. The King seemed to treat her kindly; after all, he had invited Devlin simply because Ragenilda wished to meet the Chosen One. But it was a distant kindness, a formal relationship that was a far cry from the way a Caer family would behave. He wondered if she was ever allowed to escape the rigid confines of protocol and play as a child should. Perhaps matters might have been different if her mother had lived, but the Queen had died soon after Ragenilda’s birth.

With the Princess silenced, the King himself seemed to have nothing else to say, and Devlin finished his kava in silence. He was grateful when the King finally arose, signaling the end of the strange interlude.

Devlin’s steps slowed as he drew near the Royal Temple. He had not returned to the temple since the day of his Choosing Ceremony, but now Master Dreng had summoned him, claiming he had urgent news to relate. As Devlin entered the dark confines he felt a sense of unease, as if he were trespassing where he had no right to be. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, he saw Master Dreng conversing with Captain Drakken as they both examined a mosaic on the wall. He wondered why the Captain was here. Had the mage summoned her? Or had she simply happened by?

His boots echoed off the marble floor as he advanced. “Dreng!” he called out. “You wished speech with me?”

Master Dreng gestured with one hand, his attention still on the mosaic. As Devlin drew near, he realized that the mosaic was actually a map of the Kingdom, showing the cities and provinces in elaborate detail.

Captain Drakken nodded. “So there is a spy among us,” she said to the mage.

A spy? “What are you discussing?” Devlin asked.

Both turned toward him. Captain Drakken appeared thoughtful. Master Dreng looked worried.

“My lord Chosen One,” Master Dreng said, with a formal bow, bending nearly in half. “I have failed in your service and must beg your forgiveness.”

What nonsense was this? “Speak plainly or not at all,” Devlin ordered.

Master Dreng straightened up. “I have discovered how the elemental was able to find you,” he said, gesturing toward the stone wall. He held out his right hand and opened his fist to reveal a glowing red stone. “Someone used the soul stone to key the spell, and thus the elemental had your scent, as it were. I have shielded it now, as I should have done on that day, so it cannot be used for such again.”

Devlin eyed the glowing stone, which pulsed faintly as if it were a living creature. “What is that thing?”

Master Dreng blinked in surprise. “It is the soul stone.”

“You said that. Now tell me, what is it?”

Master Dreng appeared puzzled. “This stone was sealed to you during your Choosing Ceremony. It is one half of a larger stone. The other half is the stone set in the ring of your office. The rings are fashioned by the court jeweler, but they have no power until they are bound to the wearer in the Choosing ritual.”

Devlin cast his mind back to the day of his Choosing. He remembered there had been a glowing stone on the altar. The temple priest had placed the stone in a box or container of some sort.

“What is it for?”

The mage gestured to the map wall. “The soul stone is tied to your life essence. When you leave on an errand, it is affixed to the map wall, where it follows the track of your journey. When you return to Kingsholm it is removed, and placed back in the casket until the next journey.”

“The stone tells us if the Chosen One is hale or wounded,” Captain Drakken added. “So we knew that you were sorely wounded at Long Lake, and lay near death for several days. Then the stone showed your return to health. And if you were to die, the stone would tell us that as well.”

Devlin’s flesh crawled as he looked at that stone, and he took an involuntary step backward. He could not bear the thought that his private struggles were made plain for all the world to see. This was an unclean magic and he wanted no part of it.

“So the sorcerer who sent the creature of darkness had merely to see this map to know where I was?”

Master Dreng shook his head. “This was far more ingenious. A spell was cast to link the mage with the power of the soul stone, enabling the mage to follow the track of your soul across the ethereal plane. A cunning spell, but still it was easy to detect, which means the mage who placed it was less powerful than I. If a mage of the first rank had placed such a spell, I would have found no trace.”

Devlin’s mind recoiled from the horror of the thing. How could the mage speak so casually of an enemy who had the power to touch Devlin’s very soul?

“So there is someone in Kingsholm who is in league with my enemy and wishes me dead. Someone in the city, or maybe even in the palace, who has access to this temple,” Devlin said, fighting hard not to let his inner turmoil show.

“At least one traitor,” Captain Drakken said. “Maybe more.”

She looked angry at the thought. Well, security in the city was her domain, so it was no wonder.

Devlin could summon no such anger on his own behalf. Instead all his outrage was focused on the discovery of this soul stone. “What else have you forgotten to tell me? What other tricks does that cursed stone perform?”

The venom in his voice seemed to startle his companions. “There is nothing else,” Master Dreng said. “Except that you can use the soul stone to summon assistance. You simply invoke the ring and focus all your thoughts upon the need for assistance. The stone in the map will change to a blue color, so we will know of your need.”

“Though whether the King decides to send troops to answer that need is another matter entirely,” Captain Drakken said dryly.

“And what of the Geas? Is there aught else you should tell me?”

“I have told you all I know,” Master Dreng answered.

Devlin turned his head and spat on the floor, not caring that he had violated the sanctuary of this temple. “You are fools. All of you. Small wonder that the Chosen are killed like mayflies if such wisdom is all you have to offer them.” They were like children, playing with magics they did not understand. Did they have any idea of what the Geas could drive him to do in their service?