Devlin's Luck (22 page)

It was not just the arrow in his leg. There was a litany of injuries that he’d refused to share with the herbalist. His right side ached, and it hurt to breathe. He’d probably cracked a rib or two. His arms and hands were sore, and there was a soft spot on his skull where a bruise was forming. But all told he’d come through the ordeal far better than he’d had any right to expect. Many would call him lucky to be alive.

“No,” Devlin said. “I do not need a healer. I just need rest. But you go and join the fisherfolk at their feast. They need to celebrate, to remember that they are alive, and to convince themselves that the monster is truly gone. And for that they deserve the talents of the finest minstrel in Kingsholm.”

“If you are certain,” Stephen said, preening under the flattery.

“Go,” Devlin ordered.

After Stephen left, Devlin allowed himself to sag back against the bed. Even that tiny movement caused pain to shoot through him, and he swore softly under his breath. Still, he had endured worse before and lived. In time the wounds would heal and the pain fade away to a memory.

Once again the Gods had spared him. He cursed them, even as he wondered what they intended for him next.

The celebration lasted far into the night. From his cottage Devlin could hear the sounds of the revelers. But he did not envy them, for a thoughtful soul had supplied a tray of the finest food the village could offer and a clay jug filled with a clear liquid called kelje. The seven different forms of fish that were offered reminded him unpleasantly of the skrimsal’s flesh, and he had pushed the tray aside without eating. But the kelje had proven a welcome surprise. Clear like water, it burned his throat like fire and settled into his stomach with a comforting warmth.

The next morning he was paying for his indulgence. His head was heavy, his eyes sore, and he could barely manage to stand and dress himself. But he would not stay another day in the village, and had sent the woman of the cottage in search of Stephen, to tell him to make preparations to depart.

As he stepped outside, the sunlight made his eyes water, and he lifted his hand to shade them.

“Hail to the victor of the lake,” a voice shouted, and then a multitude of voices echoed, “Hail!”

Devlin flinched. It seemed the entire village had assembled to see them off.

Some of them looked a little worse for wear, as if they, too, had overindulged in spirits last night. But most faces wore the same expression of awe and fear that he had seen on the face of the herbalist the day before. His skin crawled as he realized that, though they looked at him, they did not see the man. Instead they saw a legend brought to life. No mortal man could live up to the image they had created.

The village speaker advanced from the crowd, then bowed low, as if to the King. “Chosen One, the Gods sent you to aid us in our time of great peril. We will be forever in your debt, and we will sing your praises to the Gods each feast day, from now until the end of time.”

Devlin felt nauseous. “I am but a man,” he protested. “Any could have done what I did.”

The speaker shook his head. “You are modest but we all bore witness to your great deeds. Only a man with the heart of a wolf, the courage of a she-lion, and the strength of a river could have done as you did. Truly you are blessed by the Gods.”

The heart of a wolf? The courage of a she-lion? Those phrases had the ring of minstrelsy. Of bad minstrelsy. Devlin’s eyes searched the crowd, and found Stephen standing at the edge, holding their two horses. He caught the minstrel’s gaze, with a look that promised later retribution.

“I thank you for the gift of your hospitality,” he said to the speaker. “But we must travel onward now. Troubles wait for no man.”

The villagers beamed at this fatuous bit of wisdom.

Devlin beckoned Stephen, who led over the horses. His packs had already been loaded. Impatient to be gone, for once Devlin did not check the harness. Instead, he placed his left hand on the pommel, gritted his teeth, and with his right hand pulled himself into the saddle.

Air hissed between his teeth as his ribs complained of the maneuver, but he forced himself to sit upright as if nothing was wrong. A woman handed him his axe, which he fastened to the saddle. Stephen mounted his own horse, and after another exchange of flowery compliments they were finally allowed to depart.

They set off at a brisk trot, which made his head twinge with every stride. A band of young children ran after them for a short distance, but after a while even the hardiest of them turned back. When he was finally certain they were no longer being observed, Devlin eased his horse into an ambling walk and allowed himself to slump in the saddle.

“Chosen One?” Stephen asked.

“My name is Devlin,” he said, unwilling to put up with this nonsense. “Use it, or call me not at all.”

“Devlin, then. You look ill. Are you sure we should leave today? Perhaps we had better return and rest until you are well.”

“I am not ill. I have drink taken.”

“You have what?”

“Last night. That kelje. I must have had the whole jug before I fell asleep.”

“You were drunk,” Stephen accused.

“Yes. And now I must pay the price for my misdeeds. So please, speak softly. And no singing. No playing your lute. Just … quiet.”

They rode in silence for the rest of the morning, pausing only at noon to rest their horses and to eat the fish pastries the villagers had prepared. Devlin found the food dry and tasteless, and consumed no more than a few bites. Remounting his horse was harder than it had been that morning, but he managed it without letting Stephen see how much the effort cost.

By now his head was throbbing, and there was a mist across his vision. Where the creature’s blood had splashed him, his skin was turning red and peeling as if sunburned, and it itched ferociously. He wound his hands tightly in the reins, trying to resist the urge to tear at his flesh.

This was no simple hangover. And he was getting worse, not better. He opened his mouth to call out to Stephen, who had ridden ahead, then closed it. What would he say? If he confessed his weakness, the minstrel would insist that they return to Greenhalt. And he would not do that. He refused to return to that place, which insisted on treating him as both less and more than a mortal man.

Devlin would take his chances on the road. Either the fever would pass, or it would not. Perhaps the monster had killed him after all. It was just taking Devlin’s body time to realize it had received its death blow.

It was the third day since they had left Greenhalt, and by now Stephen had realized that something was dreadfully wrong with his companion. Devlin’s excuse of a hangover had seemed reasonable on the first day, and his fatigue that night explainable as a result of his ordeal.

On the second morning, Devlin had appeared worse than the first. He had refused to eat. And yet he had insisted they journey onward. Stephen knew he should have demanded that they turn back, but he had allowed himself to be overruled. That night Devlin had practically fallen out of the saddle. He had blamed his weakness on the arrow wound in his leg, and Stephen had believed his excuse.

By the third morning, there had been no hiding his illness. Devlin’s face was white and covered with sweat, his eyes dull and sunken. His hands and arms were bleeding where he had scratched at the peeling skin during the night. He’d allowed Stephen to bind them up in linen, and this worried Stephen most of all. Such docility was not like Devlin.

Stephen fretted as he wondered what to do. Should he stay here and hope that rest would enable Devlin to regain his strength? Yet the little he knew of healing told him this would be folly. He had willow bark for fevers, but no other herbs. What the Chosen One needed was a skilled healer.

And skilled healers were scarce in the country provinces. The nearest one lived at Lord Brynjolf’s keep. If he and Devlin stayed on the road, they would reach Zimsek within a day. From there he could send someone to fetch the healer, but it would take at least another day for them to go and for the healer to return. Two days, then, before Devlin received help.

Devlin did not look as if he would last two hours, let alone two days.

Stephen cursed himself for his foolish blindness. He knew he had only his own selfishness to blame. How proud he had been of the fight against the skrimsal and the role he had played. With his own hands he had shot metal bolts from the transverse bow and seen them pierce the creature’s scaly hide. And he had been there to witness Devlin’s heroics as the Chosen One had struck the death blow.

He’d felt as if he were in a legend come to life, and was already hard at work at a glorious song that would commemorate the event. A song that would bring him fame and fortune.

He had been so wrapped up in his music and his dreams of glory that he had paid little heed to Devlin’s rapid decline. Only when it was almost too late had he realized his mistake.

Two days was too long, he decided. But there was another way. Yesterday, just before they had made camp, they had passed the start of an old forest trail, one that Stephen had known as a boy. The trail led through the forest, to Lord Brynjolf’s keep. If the trail was passable, he and Devlin could reach the keep, and its healer, by sunset.

He knew it was a gamble. Falling trees, flooded streams, or mud slides could have altered the trail, or rendered it impassable, in which case he would have to retrace their path and try the main road. Already on their trip he had confidently guided them along a road he knew well, only to find it washed out by floods. And it had been many years since he had ventured on the forest trail. But it was a gamble he had to take. Better by far to gamble than to take the safe way, only to watch Devlin die because no healer could be found in time.

He lifted the cup of willow bark tea from the ground, where it had been brewing, and thrust it into Devlin’s hands. “Drink,” he ordered, his own hands wrapped around Devlin’s as he lifted the mug to his lips. Devlin’s hands shook, and he spilled some of the tea, but he managed to swallow most of it. Stephen decided to take that as a good sign.

“We cannot stay here,” he said. “Can you ride?”

Devlin nodded, his eyes focused on the air to Stephen’s left. “I can ride,” he rasped.

With difficulty he rose, and allowed Stephen to lead him to a flat rock, on which he stood. Stephen brought over his horse, and, with Stephen’s help, Devlin managed to pull himself into the saddle. Barely.

“No need,” Devlin objected, as Stephen unbuckled the war straps and used them to tie Devlin’s legs to the sides of the saddle. Stephen ignored his objections and took the strap from the high-backed cantle and ran it around Devlin’s waist, buckling it firmly. There. That should keep him on his horse.

Taking the reins of Devlin’s horse in his hand, he mounted. “Stay with me,” he said. “Stay with me and I promise today will be the last of our travels.”

A faint smile touched Devlin’s lips. “The last day,” he muttered. His eyes half closed, and he slumped in the saddle. “What a tale you will have to tell, minstrel.”

Stephen kicked his horse into a walk, and Devlin’s horse followed obediently behind. After an hour’s ride back along their route, they reached the clearing that marked the start of the old forest trail. He turned to check on his companion, but Devlin looked no worse than before. It was now or never.

“I will not fail,” he vowed, turning their horses onto the trail. He could not. He promised the Gods he would give everything he had, if only they would grant him this one boon.

“In the name of King Olafur and his people, I call upon Teó, the Great Father, and Teá, the Great Mother, to bless us. I call upon Lady Sonja to bestow courage upon your people. Lord Haakon grant us justice, Lord Egil bless our work, and Lady Geyra heal our hearts. And may he who is not named favor our endeavors.”

As he finished the dawn prayer, Brother Arni bowed low seven times before the altar, then knelt to the ground and prostrated himself for a count of one hundred heartbeats. Then he arose.

“In the name of all the Gods, I greet this day,” he said, invoking the traditional dismissal at the end of the service, though he knew there was no one in the Royal Chapel except himself. Still, there were the dignities to be maintained.

He sighed. Nowadays few people came to the Royal Chapel. In these troubled times, most chose to dedicate themselves to one of the seven, as if that would grant them additional protection. In the city, the temple of the Heavenly Pair, devoted to Father Teó and Mother Teá, was filled each rest day, and never lacked followers for the dawn services. Many of the courtiers worshiped there, or made the trip into the old city to pay their homage to Lady Sonja, Goddess of War.

In his youth, Brother Arni had considered devoting himself to the service of Lady Geyra. He’d always felt a special kinship for healers. But instead his mother had convinced him that the wisest path was to follow her own vocation, and to serve all the Gods equally.

Not that he regretted his decision. Oh no. He took pride in his faithful service, and in quiet meditations of devotion. Still, it would have been nice, from time to time, to lead others in prayer.

Yet that was not to be. The Royal Chapel came to life only once a year, when the King led the midsummer service. The only others who ventured in were the ones who would be Chosen. And even those were all too rare these days, although he was afraid there might be a need for a new Chosen One soon.