Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray

Devlin fought back the despair, as he had on so many occasions before. You cannot give in to your pain , he reminded himself. You have promises to keep .
    But he had paid his debts with the nine golden disks he had sent to Duncaer. He had kept his promise to see that Cormack’s wife and remaining children would be cared for. There was no reason why he shouldn’t give in to his craving.
    A small voice whispered that an honorable man would not accept the King’s reward, and then kill himself before he could fulfill his oath. The man that he had once been would never have contemplated such a dishonorable act. But the man he had become knew that the call of honor weighed little when measured against endless torment.
    Devlin rose and picked up his knife from the table where he had placed it the night before. It was small, and served mostly as an eating knife. Nonetheless, like all his blades its edge was as sharp as he could make it.
    Oblivion beckoned, but he paused for a moment, realizing that once he made this decision there would be no turning back. He searched his soul carefully, but found no reason why he should remain among the living. And all too many reasons why he should pay for his sins with his death. For though he had not killed them with his own hands, nonetheless he bore the guilt of their deaths. Wife, child, brother, nephew, all dead because of Devlin’s mistakes and what he had failed to do. His sister-in-law Agneta had been right when she named him kinslayer.
    He placed the knife back on the table and deliberately began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. A cut the long way would kill him swiftly. Picking up the knife, he held it in his right hand, then placed it against his left wrist. Exerting a firm pressure, he began to draw the blade upward. But instead of cutting, the blade skittered along the inside of his arm, making only a shallow scratch.
    Devlin stared for a moment. Never before had a blade turned in his hand. He tightened his grasp, and began again. This time the blade would not move at all. He swore, and strained with all the muscles his years as a smith had earned him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, yet despite his fiercest determination, he could not make the shallowest cut.
    It was as if his right hand had a will of its own. As soon as the thought occurred, he felt his concentration slip. In that instant he watched, a passive observer, as his right hand pulled the dagger away from his wrist and then flung the blade across the room, where it hit the wall, then fell to the floor. There it remained; for though he tried with all his concentration, Devlin could not will himself to pick it up.
    He stood up. A sword would do as well. But as soon as the thought formed, his legs froze and he could not take another step toward the deadly weapon.
    A cold shiver ran through him as he realized that there was only one explanation. The Geas. That strange binding spell that was part of the Choosing Ceremony. It was said that the Geas ensured that the Chosen remained faithful to their oath. And apparently this Geas held a dim view of anyone who would kill himself before embarking on his service.
    So be it. He scowled, and kicked the knife away with his boot. The Geas wouldn’t let him kill himself, but it couldn’t prevent Devlin from being killed by an enemy of Jorsk. All he had to do was find that enemy, and he would earn the death that he craved.

Four

    THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN FOUND DEVLIN STILL seated in the wooden chair. The discarded knife lay on the floor next to him. In his hands he held the axe head, which he turned over and over, as if he could read his fate in the tempered steel. But there was nothing to be seen, save the reflection of his face.
    He did not like what he saw. The man who looked back had the eyes of a haunted man, a man who had seen too much horror to be completely sane. And behind the horror he could see the shadow of fear.
    The events of the previous night had shaken him. He