Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series

by Helen Garraway

  “Jerrol would not assassinate a head of state,” the king said. The furrows on his brow deepened. “I don’t believe it. Something obviously went wrong, and they are using it as an excuse. Do you think he is dead? Do you think they killed him for not shredding the Veil?”

  Bryce and Fonorion stared at him, horrified. “They wouldn’t. That would be a declaration of war, and Randolf can’t want to show his hand yet. We should go to our contingency plan, though,” Bryce said as he strode towards the door.

  Benedict stared at him. “Contingency plan?” he repeated.

  Bryce nodded, pausing in the doorway to glance back at the king. “We discussed the possibility of things not going to plan. We’ve been implementing his orders, just in case.”

  “What orders?” the king growled.

  Bryce hesitated. “The strengthening of our defences along the Elothian border and scouting runs to test the strength of their forces and their positions, Your Majesty.”

  There was a pregnant silence, before the king covered his eyes with his hand and started muttering under his breath.

  “Your Majesty?” Bryce wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what the king was muttering, though Fonorion grinned in appreciation.

  “The commander has over-stepped his authority,” the king bit out.

  Bryce shrugged. “His logic is sound. He said we would be suffering attacks from Elothia and to guard our borders. We have had incursions in both Stoneford and Deepwater. Men have been taken from both Watches by the Elothians. The generals are co-ordinating their attacks, splitting our defences.”

  “I have a throne room full of Terolians, a result of the commanders last expedition, expecting to be feted. When it finishes, you will provide me with every detail of this contingency plan,” the king ordered, glaring at them. “In the meantime, get Taelia, Marianille and Niallerion back here.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Bryce replied, bowing before he left the antechamber.

  18

  Taelia’s rooms, Retarfu, Elothia

  Marianille paced. An agitated stalk back and forth across the private parlour they shared with Taelia, and Niallerion eyed her in concern. The air positively crackled around her, a hint of blue sparks trailing in her wake. She was beautiful. Glossy brown hair cascaded in waves down her back, the longest he had ever seen her grow them. Her deep blue gown complemented her creamy complexion and the slight blush to her cheeks.

  She looked toned and fit having found somewhere to train, just as he had but obviously not enough. Maybe, he could use her excess energy to his benefit, and keep her occupied while he went snooping. He knew she would not approve of his plan, so he had no intention of telling her.

  “Why don’t you go and train?” he asked.

  “And break our cover?” Her glance of disdain cut him, and he tried to quell his flinch. She had such expressive eyes, currently molten silver, or maybe molten silver that had been worked into arrow tips because they pierced his skin and he had no defence against them.

  Taking a slightly deeper breath, he said, “Don’t you think that is already blown? The Ascendants know what we are. I’m surprised they haven’t outed us already.”

  “I expect they have,” Marianille replied with a toss of glossy hair. More sparks flashing at the tips as they whipped passed.

  “You are brimming with energy. It is noticeable, you need to go and work some of it off. Go show those palace guards how it is done.

  “Aren’t you offering?”

  Niallerion huffed. He would love to, just not when she was ready to pounce like some vengeful mountain creature and slice him up into little pieces. “I’ll let them take the edge off first.”

  “Coward.” Marianille’s severe expression softened as she stopped pacing and stared at him. “How are we going to find Birlerion, Niallerion? With the Captain under arrest,” she gulped as she said the words, their failure still raw enough to bite, “he is our next best hope. We have to find him.”

  “What do you know about Birlerion that the rest of us don’t, Marianille?”

  Marianille started pacing again. “I don’t know anything for sure. I just have this feeling, this need, that we have to find him.”

  “Then, for Lady’s sake, go work some of that energy off so you can concentrate. We need to plan what to do next. We can’t kick our heels here forever.” Niallerion hesitated and then, casting her a calculated glance, said, “I heard that chevron lieutenant claiming women can’t fight. That they shouldn’t be allowed in the army.”

  “There are no women in the grand duke’s army, nor the king’s come to that,” Marianille replied, halting as the realisation struck her. “Leyandrii was really open-minded, wasn’t she? I wonder when they lost that trait?”

  “Who knows? Why don’t you go and remind them why they are being so short-sighted? I saw the lieutenant on the way to the training grounds.”

  A grim smile on her face and a martial light in her eye, Marianille strode out of the room, her skirts swirling. Niallerion sighed out a breath, and shook out his hands. He had tensed up as a direct result of her anguish and his inability to take it away.

  Ignoring his own desperate fears for their future, he concentrated on his plan. Tugging out a bundle of cloth from behind one of the chairs, he struggled into a simple embroidered blouse and the layered skirts of a lady in waiting, thanking the Lady he didn’t need to try and get into a gown on his own. Wrapping the blue silk shawl around his shoulders and pinning it with a silver dagger broach, he walked back and forth across the room a few times, adjusting his stride to avoid tangling with the skirts.

  Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he grimaced at the reflection. The things he did for Lady, king and country! Marianille would never let him live it down if she caught him. He concentrated on positioning a wig made of deep brown human hair rolled up into an elaborate style currently popular with many of the young ladies, on his head, and pinning it in place. A quick dusting of the white powder they used on their faces and he didn’t recognise himself. Even his eyes had a blue tinge to them, softening the silver. All to the good then.

  He stuffed his clothes out of sight behind the chair, swung a warm woollen cloak around his shoulders and left. Having tripped on his skirts for the third time, Niallerion took a deep breath, shortened his stride again and calmed his racing heart. Deciding to dress up and actually doing it were two different things. Every time someone approached him, his heart skipped a beat as he held his breath, exhaling in a rush once they had passed.

  He had only traversed two corridors and he was a nervous wreck.

  Taking courage from the fact no one had commented on his appearance, in fact, no one had even looked at his face, he continued on his way. Finding his rhythm, he swayed his hips, enjoying the swirl of material around his legs. Actually, he mused as he sashayed down the hall, this was not too bad.

  The corridor led out into the inner courtyard, a square open space decorated with a fountain in the centre, an centrepiece for all the surrounding windows to observe. Skirting the frozen fountain, the tang of damp stone in his nose, he continued through the archway that led to the outer courtyard.

  Inhaling frigid air made his chest ache and then he coughed it out as the cold air struck the back of his throat. The relatively sheltered courtyard had deceived him into thinking it was warmer than it was. The outer courtyard was the centre of a fan that led out from the palace into the palace grounds. To the left the stables and barracks, straight ahead the formal gardens which led to glasshouses and workshops peeping behind tall hedges and plant covered archways, supplying the palace with produce and wares. To the right behind more tall hedges an open parade ground leading to the large gilt gates separating the duke from his people.

  Gritting his teeth against the cold, Niallerion tugged his woollen cloak tighter and hurried across the open parade ground and through the hedges on the other side towards the training grounds which extended down a sloping field, out of sight of the palace.

&nbs
p; Plumes of steam rose from sweating bodies, not engaged in strenuous activity as you would expect, but crowded around the sparring ring where Marianille taunted her opponents. She had changed into leather pants and jerkin, they look good on her, Niallerion thought as he watched her parry a strike and drive the stocky young man across the ring. The other guards jeered and taunted as the man struggled to defend against her attack.

  Grinning, he scuttled along the edge of the grounds towards the side entrance to the east wing, which was called the Flower Palace, so named for the colourful designs painted on the interior walls, and the residence of Princess Selvia, the grand duke’s sister.

  Niallerion froze as he approached the entrance, intending to search out the ladies in waiting. He had heard Selvia had thrown a tray of sweetmeats at her lady in waiting the previous day, and the woman was still griping about her. Niallerion was hoping he could get her to tell him what Selvia was up to. The servants loved to gossip about their employers.

  But here was Selvia, wrapped up in a thick fur coat, coming towards him. He shrank back against the wall with his eyes downcast.

  Selvia snapped her fingers towards Niallerion as she approached him. “You! Come with me.”

  Niallerion bobbed his knees. “Yes, your highness.” He swallowed against the shocked breathiness of his voice as he followed her back the way he had come.

  “You’ll do as well as any others,” she muttered as she continued walking across the open parade ground towards the gilt gates and the city of Retarfu. She ignored the biting wind swirling around the open space. The once majestic fox tails trimming her coat trailed behind her like a pack of frolicking puppies.

  Niallerion followed, straining to hear what the woman was muttering under her breath. Someone had upset her, that was obvious. He stiffened as four guards flanked them, two either side and he concentrated on swaying his hips in a parody of Selvia’s glide across the ground.

  As they passed out of the gates, Niallerion flipped his hood up, providing some protection for his freezing ears, tucked his hands in his sleeves, and carefully watched where he put his feet, trying to avoid dragging his skirts in the slushy snow.

  Picking their way through the piles of grubby snow lining the street, Niallerion followed Selvia towards the White Stag, a tavern off the main square, and more usually frequented by passing travellers, it being the only one on the main road with room for carriages.

  Selvia stamped her feet on the mat in the entrance and then gestured imperiously to one of her guards. The man bobbed his head and entered the tavern. Niallerion inspected the taproom, which at this time of day was mainly empty, the lunchtime clientele having wandered off and the evening customers not yet arrived.

  The aroma of stale hops and polish mingled with the mouth-watering scent of roasting meats and Niallerion’s stomach growled. Selvia tutted. “We are not eating here, control yourself.” She shifted from one foot to the other, her fox tails wiggling on the floor. Niallerion averted his eyes from the sight and inspected the man approaching. The inn keeper, he assumed.

  He bowed. “Your highness. You honour our humble inn. Welcome. The private parlour is reserved for your use.”

  “Lead on, then. I do not wish to be ogled by every man in the street.”

  “Of course, your highness. This way, if you please.”

  Niallerion trailed behind, trying to keep the shadows. He wasn’t sure he could maintain his disguise for an extended period in front of so many people. Marianille would kill him if she found out. That was, if he lived to tell the tale. Maybe this would be one story he would keep to himself.

  The guards herded him before them, and he entered the parlour, and found a shadowy nook behind the seat Selvia chose. And then one of the guards began lighting all the lamps in the room, revealing every corner. Niallerion began to sweat.

  Selvia stripped off her gloves and coat and held them out. Niallerion started and moved to take them. Casting him a sharp glance, Selvia sat. “You will stand behind me and remain silent. Not a word of this meeting will leave this room.”

  Niallerion bobbed his head. “Of course, your highness.”

  “Good.” Selvia folded her hands, and sat straight backed, waiting.

  Niallerion eased open his cloak, but didn’t remove it, at least it disguised the fact he didn’t have the requisite curves. The room warmed as they waited, and he wondered who dared to keep a princess waiting.

  By the time a commotion occurred outside the parlour door, the princess’ foot was tapping an irritable staccato on the floor, and Niallerion was glad of the hours of sentry duty he had stood, else he would have collapsed by now. A deep voice, sharp and also irritated, heralded the arrival of a broad-chested man, dressed in a navy blue uniform, with many ribbons on his chest. His face was reddened by the icy blast rattling the windows. Niallerion was not looking forward to the walk back to the palace.

  Selvia rose to greet him, an eager smile on her face. “Uncle Samuel! Finally! What took you so long?”

  “Sorry dearie, it’s the roads, y’know. New snow fall always causes issues. I’ll have even more trouble returning to the front, no doubt.”

  A general then, Niallerion thought, but which one?

  “What news?”

  “Apart from a lack of decent inns, you mean? They have us sleeping on the floor in tents! I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

  “Stop teasing. I know perfectly well you are not sleeping on the floor. Your aide wouldn’t allow the Grand Duke’s Chief of Staff to be so inconvenienced. Now sit and tell me the latest situation. How many Vespirians have you killed?”

  Shit! Niallerion thought trying to efface himself, but there was nowhere to hide. If he got out of this room alive it would be a miracle. Her uncle was General Kabil, the supreme commander of the Elothian Army.

  “You are such a blood-thirsty wench,” the general said, as he thrust his gloves and cloak at one of the guards. He sat in the chair opposite Selvia, his bulk making the chair creak in protest. “Isn’t there something to drink?” he snapped his fingers at Niallerion. “You, girl. Go get some wine. The good stuff, tell them.” He turned back to Selvia as Niallerion hesitated.

  “Stay. You go.” Selvia said and nodded to one of the guards.

  The general’s eyes narrowed as he inspected Niallerion. “Who is she? Do you trust her?”

  “Of course. I promise, not a word of this meeting will pass her lips. Uncle, the time is ripe. We should strike now. Randolf is off balance, he didn’t expect to ascend to the throne. We should remove him before he finds his stride.”

  Oh dear Lady. Niallerion breathed shallowly. His mind spinning. Selvia was scheming with General Kabil, the five-star general himself.

  “Now, now, there is no reason to rush into things. The boy isn’t going anywhere. We have to time it right. I’ve got my hands full with moving the army south. We are not ready to strike at Stoneford. That Jason is a wily old fox. He will not be so easy to defeat. I need to double my numbers first, and it takes time to move that many men.”

  “When will you be ready?”

  “Not till the summer. We need the warmer weather to dry out the plains. Trying to slog through all that ice and mud will just tire out the troops. Inefficient.”

  “The summer!” Selvia hissed. “That will be too late.”

  Kabil patted her hand. “Child, leave the war to me. You make sure you are ready to unseat your brother.”

  “Uncle, we are ready now.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the wine. A young serving girl poured the drinks with shaking hands.

  “Leave the jug,” Kabil said, taking a gulp.

  Selvia sipped her wine more delicately. “Randolf will be suspicious of you being here.”

  “Don’t tell him, then.”

  “What? You aren’t coming up to the palace?”

  “Why would I? Those bloody idiots would try and tell me how to run my war.”

  “Those idiots as you call them, ar
e the ones making your subordinates amenable to your suggestions. Be careful how you speak of them.”

  Kabil leaned forward. “Are you sure we need them? They are arrogant bastards. What are they really after? Those Watch Towers won’t give them power, nor money; they are just empty stone towers.”

  “The towers are the path to their salvation. They will open the door and their ancestors will step through.”

  “And do what? Challenge us for power or shrivel up and die?”

  Selvia snorted. “They will support my claim of course. We help them get the Watch Towers so they can save their people, and they help us get the Grand Duchy. I am the eldest. I should be the Duchess.”

  “And a lovely duchess you’ll make, my sweet.”

  Selvia preened and then grew more serious. “Uncle, there is a wrinkle. King Benedict sent an envoy. Ambassador Haven. He came to negotiate peace. But there was a situation and Randolf overreacted and killed him.”

  “What?”

  Niallerion silently echoed the general’s exclamation.

  “There hasn’t been time to receive King Benedict’s response, but you may not have until the summer to prepare.”

  “How did that happen? There are rules around diplomacy.”

  “I’m not sure of all the details, suffice to say he is dead and the king may retaliate.”

  ‘Damn and blast it. We only have one chance at this, Selvia. Everything needs to be perfect.”

  Selvia shrugged. “It’s done. I told you Randolf wasn’t fit to rule. More reason to replace him.”

  Kabil rubbed his face. “You tell those Ascendants we will march when the plains dry out and not before, otherwise we will not have an army when we arrive.”

  “Uncle, darling, please don’t be difficult.”

  The man snorted. “Difficult? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You try slogging through five feet of snow for miles on end.” He poured some more wine into his glass and swirled the red liquid. He sighed. “It would help to know why they need us to move now. Find out! I’ll be here until the weather calms down, a few days at least. Bring me word here, and I’ll see.”