Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray Read Free Book Online

Sword of Light was lost nearly fifty years ago, at the Siege of Ynnis. It is said…” Stephen let his voice trail off as he remembered that the Siege of Ynnis had been the bloody capstone to the conquest of Duncaer. As one of the conquered people, no doubt Devlin had his own view of the events surrounding the siege.
    “A fitting end,” he said. He leaned back in his seat, and folded his arms. “Fitting that you lost the sword, since you lost your honor there as well.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Of course you don’t. No doubt you sing about what happened on that day, hiding the truths behind pretty lies.” Devlin’s face darkened, and his eyes sparked with anger, and Stephen felt a tingle of fear. It seemed Devlin bore little love for those who had conquered his homeland, and yet, that made no sense. If he hated the Jorskians, then why would he have sought to become the Chosen One? And why would the Gods accept such a candidate?
    Then Devlin shrugged, and the anger drained from his body like water from a cupped hand. “It does not matter,” he said. “What was done was done, long before we were born.”
    “That makes it no less important,” Stephen countered. As a minstrel, he knew full well how the deeds of the past resonated in the present. Why else would men harken back to the example of Donalt, or sing the songs of the time of Queen Reginleifar?
    “My people have no love for yours, nor yours for mine. What will they do when they hear the news that I am the new Chosen One?”
    Stephen took a drink of his wine, as he considered how to phrase his response. He had no wish to provoke the Chosen One’s anger for a second time. “Most will pay little heed to the news. In recent years, the Chosen have lost power and respect,” he said.
    No need to mention the obvious, that given the Chosen One’s short life expectancy, even those who might object to a foreigner filling the post would assume that his tenure would be brief, and thus they would raise no objections.
    “So I can expect neither help nor hindrance? It is as well, since there is no one here I would trust.”
    Devlin stared grimly at his wine cup, seemingly lost in thought. Then he lifted it, and drained it dry.
    “Another? We have barely put a dent in Master Dreng’s silver,” Stephen said. And perhaps another round would loosen Devlin’s tongue.
    “No,” Devlin said, beginning to rise. “It is late, and I must leave.”
    “But wait. You can’t leave. You have told me nothing about yourself. What will I use for my song?” After two hours in his company, all Stephen knew was that his companion was from Duncaer and had once been a metalsmith. He had met clams that were easier to pry open.
    Devlin hesitated, indecision written on his face. Then he resumed his seat. “Very well. I suppose I owe you that much. You may ask one question.”
    Stephen thought furiously. A dozen questions raced through his mind, but in the end there was one that overrode all others. “What was it that made you come all this way, to be the Chosen One?”
    Devlin looked down at the surface of the table, and for a moment Stephen feared that he would not answer. When he finally raised his head, his face was frozen, as if his features were cast in stone. But when he spoke, his voice was light and mocking. “It was in a place much like this. Having valiantly conquered nearly an entire cask of ale, I settled in the corner to sleep. Before I passed out, I heard a voice telling of the Chosen One. And I realized at once that this is what I was meant to do.”
    “You were drunk?” He had not meant to shout, but heads swiveled in their direction at his incredulous tone.
    “You could call it that. I prefer to think of it as divinely inspired,” Devlin said mildly.
    Stephen could not contain his astonishment. “You journeyed hundreds of miles to offer up your life as Chosen One all because of a vision you had when drunk?”
    “It is my life.”
    This would never do.