Free Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray Page A

grudgingly.
    “And?” So Devlin had some skill as a smith. She did not see why that would make Master Timo angry.

    “So why would a man with hands like that decide to become Chosen One? Any smith in the city would have gladly taken him on as a journeyman, even a partner in time.” Timo shook his head. “I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense. A waste of good talent, that’s what I think.”
    It made no sense to her either. At first she had thought Devlin a farmer fallen on hard times, who had decided to try his luck as Chosen One. Yet from what Master Timo said, Devlin could easily have found work as a smith. So it had not been mere poverty that drove Devlin to seek the post. She prided herself on her ability to judge people, yet Devlin Stonehand continued to surprise her.
    Perhaps she should stop trying to puzzle him out and simply make use of the tool that the Gods had placed in her hand. She would give him a task, and let him make of it what he would.

Five

    DEVLIN RETURNED TO HIS QUARTERS AS THE SUN was setting, carrying under one arm the newly reforged axe and the bolts which he had fashioned. The memory of the forge master’s scorn lingered bitterly in his mind. Always before, a forge had been a safe haven for him, the one place he was sure of himself. But now even that was denied to him. Master Timo had made it clear that there would be no welcome for any man who bore the title of Chosen One.
    As he turned down the hall that led to his quarters, a wave of hunger swept over him, and he realized he had not eaten since he had broken his fast that morning. Any hope of a quiet dinner was dashed by the sight of a liveried servant standing outside his door. The woman bowed as he approached.
    “My lord Chosen One. The Royal Steward sends his compliments, and begs that you join the household in the Great Hall for the evening meal.”
    Devlin eyed her askance. He doubted very much that the haughty steward had ever begged for anything in his life. No doubt this was just a courteous turn of phrase.
    “I am grateful for the honor,” Devlin said carefully. “But I would prefer a quieter repast.”
    The servant shook her head. “But my lord, you cannot. To do so would be discourteous. All the King’s court join in the weekly court dinner. It is the custom.”
    Courtesy. Custom. The two words bound him with chains as firmly as any Geas. The rules of hospitality were as much a part of him as the color of his hair or the cadence of his speech. He could not deny her request.
    “Then it seems I have no choice,” he said.
    The servant woman smiled in relief, and Devlin wondered what would have happened to her if he had refused to comply. She reached behind her and opened the door to his chambers, then bowed, motioning for him to enter.
    “I have laid out the garments for you to wear,” she said. “Shall I assist you in donning them?”
    “No!” he said swiftly, then in a softer voice. “No, I can dress myself.”
    He closed the door firmly behind him. A quick glance at the bed showed that she had laid out his formal uniform. First he placed the axe in the bottom of his wardrobe, then he opened his pack and stored the bolts in the holder within.
    He stripped off his old clothes, piling them neatly next to his wardrobe. Then he turned his attention to his uniform, eyeing the unfamiliar garments with distrust. The gray silk shirt slipped over his head easily, and the buttons which held it closed were simple enough to figure out, though they ran across the shoulder rather than down the chest. Next he slipped on a pair of gray trousers made of leather that had been tanned to an unbelievable softness. The trousers were a bit loose, but a belt of silver links solved that problem.
    But the gray half boots proved an impossible fit. His foot was too broad to fit into the narrow, pointed toes, and after two attempts he gave up in disgust. He would have to wear his own boots, no matter how disgraceful their condition.