Free Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray

had she seen anyone live who had been half so grievously hurt. By all the Gods, the man standing before her should have been dead a dozen times over.
    She opened her mouth to ask Timo where he had found such an unlikely helper. Then the man turned, and she recognized the face of the Chosen One. She was shocked, then angry at herself for not having recognized him. Devlin Stonehand had declared himself a metalsmith only the day before. She should have known him at once.
    But the man in the forge was not the same man that she had seen in the palace that morning. This man looked infinitely more sure of himself. And infinitely more dangerous.
    “Captain Drakken,” he said, inclining his head in the manner of a King receiving an audience.
    “Chosen One,” she replied, giving him the formal salute for the first time since the ceremony.
    Her eyes were drawn back to the scars that were visible on his chest. Running in parallel tracks, they had the look of claw marks, although she fervently wished never to encounter a creature that could make those kinds of wounds. But apparently Devlin had, and somehow survived. And recently too. She would wager her Captain’s rank that those scars had been made less than a year ago.
    Her gaze seemed to discomfit him. He reached for the shirt that lay discarded on the workbench, then shrugged it on. She longed to ask him what had caused those scars, but sensed that this was not a question he would answer.
    “The bolts are finished, although you will want to check them yourself after the last set has cooled,” Devlin said, addressing Master Timo.
    The smith nodded, but did not speak.
    “You wished speech with me?” Devlin asked.
    She shook her head. “No, I came to speak with Master Timo about what we discussed this morning.”
    “Then I will leave you to your duty. Master, I thank you again for the use of your forge and your son’s tools.”
    Master Timo turned his head so he did not have to meet Devlin’s gaze. “The Chosen One has only to command and whatever you need is yours,” he said stiffly.
    Devlin’s face grew shuttered. He gathered up a handful of crossbow bolts from the bench, then picked up what appeared to be an axe, with the axe head wrapped in linen. “Let me at least pay you for the steel,” he said, reaching into his belt pouch.
    “I do not want your coin.”
    Devlin held out a silver coin, but the smith refused to take it. With a curse, Devlin threw the coin into the far corner. “Tell your son it is for the use of his tools,” he growled. Then he stalked out of the forge, without a backward glance.
    Master Timo’s rudeness surprised her, as did Devlin’s angry reaction.
    “So that was the Chosen One,” Master Timo said. “He is not what I expected.”
    “Nor I.” Devlin Stonehand continued to surprise her. Even after the ceremony she had dismissed him as another who would do more harm than good in the short time before he met his death. Now she was forced to revise her opinion. The man who bore such scars might have skills that she could use.
    Turning her attention back to Master Timo, she explained her concern over what other mischief the traitorous smith might have caused, and commissioned him to seek out and replace anything that might have been tampered with.
    “It will take weeks, if not months, to do this right. And cost more than you have in your budget for a year’s worth of weapon work.”
    “Leave that to me. And if the steward complains, I will tell him that this is done by orders of the Chosen One.”
    The smith grimaced at the mention of the new Chosen.
    “You do not like him? But you let him use your forge.”
    “That was before I knew who he was.”
    “And now?”
    “Yesterday, when you told me of a man who had known that a sword was flawed simply by listening to the metal, I knew it must be a trick. Yet today, having seen him work, I cannot deny that he is a man of skill. Perhaps even a master, in his own country,” Master Timo said