Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray Read Free Book Online Page A

He could not write a song about a man who became Chosen One because of a drunken whim. It just didn’t fit the heroic mold.
    Devlin rose from his seat. “Feel free to make up whatever tale you need for your song. It won’t matter to me. And who knows? You may get luckier with the next Chosen One.”
    “Indeed,” Stephen said, feeling his optimism returning. Devlin was right. The next Chosen One could be straight out of one of the heroic sagas, a perfect subject for immortalization. In his mind he began picturing how his new epic would be received.
    Of course before there could be a new Chosen, the present appointee would have to be killed.
    “Not that I wish any misfortune to fall upon you,” he added quickly.
    But Devlin had already disappeared.
    Devlin returned to the palace and found his new quarters after only a few wrong turns. Dismissing the waiting servant with a growl, Devlin tried to settle himself for sleep. Instead he found himself seized with a strange restlessness. Going to the tavern with the minstrel had been a mistake. Though he had been careful to say nothing that would give away his past, still the conversation had stirred up old wounds. And the wine had not helped. Too little for oblivion, but too much to let his mind rest easy.
    Ironic that he had slept as if enchanted the previous night, when no one, himself included, had thought he would survive the next day. Now, having survived the Choosing, and ensured that the reward would reach those he had left behind, he should be able to sleep without a care.
    But sleep eluded him, and he began to pace around the chamber. The room that had seemed so grand earlier now seemed smaller than the cell in which he had slept the night before. As he paced, his gaze fell on his still unopened pack. Reaching down, he picked it up and carried it over to the scarred wooden table that stood under the window.
    He opened the pack and began withdrawing the objects inside. They were few enough. A threadbare shirt, a small copper cook pot, a handful of spare bolts for his transverse bow. A leather pouch held his sharpening stones and oil. Underneath those was a large object wrapped in linen. He withdrew it and laid it on the table before him.
    Unfolding the linen, he stared at the axe head thus revealed. Splinters of wood still clung to the socket, where the helve had been shattered in that final blow. He inspected the blade carefully, but the steel showed no signs of rust or corrosion. Once the mere sight of the axe had brought him pride, a testament to his skill in forging it. Now he looked at it, and all he felt was shame.
    He should have left it behind. It had been folly to drag the axe head with him on this long journey. Useless weight—for without a helve, an axe head was just a lump of steel. There had been no need to carry it all this way. Kingsholm was a mighty city, and somewhere he could find a war-axe to his liking. A new weapon, one that did not carry a bloody legacy.
    A sensible man would abandon such a cursed weapon. But instead Devlin found himself carefully picking out the splinters of wood that remained in the socket. Tomorrow he would find a weaponsmith and see about replacing the broken helve.
    When he finally did manage to sleep, the dream came.
    It was a morning in early fall, when the leaves had just begun to turn gold, and the fields were ripe, ready to be harvested. Cerrie emerged from the cottage, carrying their infant daughter in a small basket. Her movements were graceful and unhurried as she crossed the yard. Setting the basket down in the sunshine, she joined Cormack and young Bevan as they began to pick the red gourd fruit, stacking it carefully in baskets that would then be stored in the cold cellar.
    It was a peaceful scene, and though the work was not easy, the three laughed and sang at their labors. They paid no heed to the dark woods that bordered the tiny clearing. Only Devlin saw the silver banecats as they left the woods and began their