Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  If they succeeded, they would drive a wedge into the occupied territory, forcing the Selvarats to go far out of their way along the lesser roads to move supplies and troops between the northern end and southern ends of the occupied territories. Of course doing so would also mean that Mikkelson’s forces would be exposed, subject to attack along both flanks. And if he was defeated, only the headquarters regiment in Kingsholm’s own garrison would stand between the invaders and the capital.

  It was a dangerous gamble. But it was a risk they had to take.

  Twenty-two

  IT WAS NOT EASY TO LURK UNOBTRUSIVELY outside the council chamber. To start with, when it was in session, two sentries stood outside, so that the deliberations would not be disturbed. Nor could one casually stroll past the chamber, since beyond it lay the entrance to the private wing reserved for the royal family. Fortunately, the chancellor’s office was adjacent to the council chamber. Knowing that the council was meeting that morning, Solveig had descended upon the chancellor’s office. Esker, she’d declared, had not received proper credit for supplying armsmen to fill the King’s levy, and she had been instructed by her father to take up his claim.

  With the chancellor occupied in the council, it fell to his hapless assistant to answer Solveig’s questions. In a rare burst of efficiency he’d produced a detailed listing of the tax credits allotted to each of the Barons who had answered the King’s call. As it was a summary only, she sent him to find the actual muster records, so she could confirm the count of those enrolled. He’d protested that those files were stored elsewhere, but she’d fixed him with her best glare until he mumbled that he supposed he could fetch them.

  At least she was able to intimidate a petty clerk. She’d never had to stoop to such tricks when Lord Rikard had been on the council. But nowadays all she could do was wait and hope she could glean a few scraps of information before the rest of the court heard the tale. Whatever had happened, it was urgent enough that King Olafur had summoned his councilors to an early-morning meeting, rather than waiting till their regular weekly session.

  As she waited for the clerk to return, she heard raised voices from the direction of the council chamber, though she could not make out their words. The argument, if that was what it was, lasted for several minutes. Then the voices quieted. At last she heard the squeal of hinges as the massive doors were opened.

  Fortunately, the clerk had still not returned from his errand. He would be surprised to find her gone, but she could always come back later and explain she had grown tired of waiting. Solveig stepped out of the chancellor’s office just as the first of the departing councilors passed by.

  Marshal Olvarrson was the first to appear, his shoulders slumped and his gaze fixed downward. As if separating themselves from the hapless Marshal, the other councilors appeared a few paces back, Lady Vendela in the lead, her lips pressed firmly together. Whatever had happened, she was most displeased.

  “Lord Arnulf,” Solveig said, as he drew near.

  He barely glanced at her. “Mad, the world has gone mad,” he muttered.

  She fell into step beside him. “I was wondering if there was news of your daughter Lynnheid,” she said. It would do no harm to remind Arnulf that he owed her a favor for bringing the matter to Count Magaharan’s attention.

  Arnulf stopped so abruptly that Baron Martell bumped into him, before apologizing and walking around them. “Lynnheid’s lost to me, and you had better look to your own affairs,” Arnulf said. “Whatever agreements we thought we had are gone. The garrison at Kallarne has deserted.”

  That was grave news indeed. Kallarne was the bulwark that protected the eastern approaches to Kingsholm. If the garrison were truly empty, then there would be little to stop a hostile force.

  Solveig placed her hand on Arnulf’s arm. “Walk with me,” she said, not wishing to draw further attention to them.

  “What did you mean when you said the garrison deserted?” she asked, when they had strolled far enough away from the others so there was no risk of being overheard.

  “A messenger found Commander Gregorson and a handful of loyalists locked in the punishment quarters. There were a few dozen soldiers manning the walls; but the rest—numbering in the thousands—have marched east and declared war upon the protectorate.”

  A fierce joy rose up in her, even as she tried to feign horrified disbelief. So the soldiers of Kallarne had the courage to face what the King and his councilors did not. Now they were fighting a war, whether Olafur willed it or no.

  “Madness,” she said, echoing his earlier comment. And it was indeed madness. One garrison, on its own, could inflict damage upon the enemy, but they would not be sufficient to drive the invaders from Jorsk. The best they could hope for was that they would harass the enemy, throwing them into confusion, thus giving her father and his allies in the north more time to prepare to meet the ultimate challenge. Every enemy soldier they killed was one fewer who would face her father’s troops.

  “I am told Major Mikkelson broke his parole and secretly journeyed to Kallarne. When he whistled, they came. King Olafur explained that Mikkelson was acting on his own, but the Ambassador did not believe him.”

  “Would you, if you were in his place?”

  Arnulf shrugged. “The Ambassador has informed King Olafur that the treaty is broken and warned that we face the most dire of consequences.”

  Troop Captain Lynnheid Arnulfsdatter would not be returning to join her father, nor would any of the other hostages that the Selvarats held. Not in light of what Mikkelson had done. It was tempting to see Devlin’s shadow behind Mikkelson’s daring; but if there had been news of Devlin, then Arnulf would surely have blamed him rather than Mikkelson.

  “I did not see the Count leaving the chambers,” she said.

  “Wasn’t there. He’d heard of Kallarne, of course. But Olafur wanted to keep the latest news quiet, though he is foolish to think that there are any secrets in this court. My fellow councilors are no doubt racing across the palace grounds, hoping to be the first to inform the ambassador.” Arnulf gave her a sidelong glance. “Messenger birds brought word from Lord Kollinar. He has emptied the garrisons in Duncaer and is marching north.”

  “Why? Is he bringing his troops as reinforcements?” That was even more astonishing than the news that the garrison had deserted.

  “Against his orders? I’d wager he merely wishes to take advantage of the confusion and grab what land he can for himself and his followers. Duncaer is a bleak and poor place, but there are richer lands to be found.”

  Mikkelson had learned his tactics and courage from the Chosen One, so his bold actions did not surprise her. But Kollinar was a conservative, who had spent over a decade as the Royal Governor of Duncaer, seemingly content to preserve the status quo. She could not imagine why he would have deserted his post, or what would have drawn him north.

  True, the uneasy occupation of Duncaer had meant that large numbers of soldiers were required to maintain Jorskian rule—troops that would be invaluable in shoring up the Kingdom’s defenses. But King Olafur had refused to consider recalling those troops, even when faced with probable invasion of his Kingdom. If Kollinar had indeed taken all of the occupying forces with him, something which she doubted, then he had also ceded the territory of Duncaer back to the natives. And that would be treason, something for which King Olafur would see him hanged.

  It seemed Kollinar no longer feared King Olafur’s wrath or the justice of his peers. She did not know who led the army these days, but it was assuredly not King Olafur or Marshal Olvarrson.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “See what can be salvaged from this disaster,” Arnulf said. “There are still alliances to be formed, though you may find the ambassador far less friendly than he was a few days ago.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  She bade Arnulf good-bye and left the palace to stroll outside in the courtyard, trying to gather her thoughts.

  Arnulf was an
experienced courtier, but he was wrong in his assessment of the situation. With King Olafur’s authority being eroded, the Selvarats would be even more anxious to secure agreements with those who still held power. Like her father, whose influence extended far beyond his own province of Esker, thus her bargaining position strengthened as Olafur’s weakened. She could obtain much from the ambassador if her father could be convinced to form an alliance with the Selvarat Protectorate, or even simply to sign a treaty pledging neutrality.

  If the situation worsened, they would have no choice. She and her father would have to do whatever it took to preserve Esker. But for now, she still had hope. Stephen had surprised her before. He and his friends might still find the Chosen One and bring Devlin back so he could lead the armies of Jorsk in throwing out the enemy. It was a slender hope, but it was all she had.

  It might be time to return to Esker, to inform her father of the latest news, and to find out his wishes. Such matters could not be put down on a scroll, nor was there anyone in Kingsholm that she trusted with such a vital task. And it was clear that Kingsholm was no longer safe.

  It was well enough for Arnulf to stay in Kingsholm, working to form alliances with his neighbors in the face of the new threat. But those whom she might seek as allies had already left the court or were in detention. Here she was vulnerable. In Esker, she would be negotiating from a position of strength.

  Her musings were cut short by the arrival of Lieutenant Embeth, accompanied by a pair of guards.

  “Lady Solveig, the King has requested your presence. If you please.” Lieutenant Embeth’s words were studiously polite, but the escort signaled that she would not take no for an answer.

  Solveig eyed the escort, noting that they wore the short swords of city patrol rather than carrying the spears that were used in strictly ceremonial guard duties. She could run, but in the long skirts and thin sandals of her court garb she would not get far. And it had been too many months since she had last carried a weapon.

  It seemed she had stayed in Kingsholm one day too long.

  “I am at the King’s service,” Solveig replied.

  Lieutenant Embeth walked ahead, and the escort followed carefully behind, as she was led through the courtyard, into the Queen’s garden, and then through the private entryway into the royal family’s private apartments. Few people saw her pass, and those who did hastily averted their eyes.

  As a member of the court, she had occasionally been invited to visit the King in his private chambers, so she recognized the small sitting room into which she was taken. But she did not recognize the man inside. The King had aged, nearly overnight. She knew him to be younger than her father, but at the moment he appeared old enough to be her grandsire.

  “Leave us,” the King said, dismissing her escort.

  Solveig curtsied deeply. “Your Majesty, how may I serve you?”

  She thought of all those courtiers who had simply disappeared, vanished into the dungeons that were never spoken of, yet somehow all knew existed. And those few who had reappeared, weeks later, pale and wan, loudly proclaiming their loyalty to the King even as they were stripped of their lands and possessions. At least Embeth knew where Solveig was. Before she’d left, Captain Drakken had told her that Embeth could be trusted but that Solveig was only to contact her as a last resort.

  It might well be that time.

  Solveig held the curtsy until the King acknowledged her with a jerk of his head. Only then did she straighten up.

  “Whom do you serve?” King Olafur stood, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I do not understand your question,” she said, playing for time. “I am Your Majesty’s loyal subject, of course.”

  Olafur glared at her. “None of those empty court flatteries; I haven’t time for such tripe. Tell me, whom do you serve these days? Where do your loyalties lie?”

  He began walking around her, inspecting her as if she was a particularly valuable piece of bloodstock. She forced herself not to react.

  “Kollinar betrayed me, may the Gods curse his line. Abandoned Duncaer to go haring off on his own fool quest,” Olafur said.

  Solveig remained quiet. Surely the King could not blame her for Kollinar’s deed. She had never met the man; nor were their houses connected by ties of blood or alliance.

  “You’ve no doubt heard that the garrison at Kallarne is gone. Kingsholm is left defenseless.”

  He paused in front of her, seeming to expect an answer. She chose her words carefully. “So I had heard. But surely we are not completely defenseless. There is the headquarters garrison, not to mention the City Guard. Though I hope that the fighting will not reach the walls of Kingsholm.”

  Olafur snorted. “This is all Devlin’s fault,” he said.

  “I thought he was dead,” she said, then bit her tongue before her next words landed her in one of the dungeon cells.

  “His followers keep his cult alive. The report from Kallarne says that Mikkelson committed his treason in the name of the Chosen One, and the fools who followed him believed his lies.”

  Joy rose in her at his words. So Devlin was alive. Alive, and free. And he was raising an army in the east, to throw off the invaders. The news from Kallarne would spread like wildfire. It was only a matter of time before the people of Kingsholm learned of the Chosen One’s miraculous survival.

  Now she could read the emotion in Olafur’s quick movements, and his inability to stay still. It was not anger. It was fear.

  He must be desperate indeed. Even his councilors did not know the full extent of the crisis, which made it all the more puzzling that he would confide in her. Unless, of course, he knew he was taking no risks, since she would be in no position to tell anyone what she had learned.

  “You never answered my question. Where do your loyalties lie?”

  Did he expect her to condemn herself by proclaiming her loyalty to the Chosen One? Did he think her a half-wit?

  “My duty is to Esker. To my father and to the people that I will one day rule over,” Solveig said. Her voice was calm, for she had spoken nothing less than the truth. It did not matter if she had to bargain with Olafur, with the Chosen One, or with the representatives of Prince Arnaud. Solveig would do whatever it took to secure the peace and prosperity of her province.

  “And the rest?” he prompted.

  “Beyond Esker, I owe my allegiance to Jorsk. My father and I are your vassals,” she said.

  She’d expected him to challenge her, but instead he simply nodded. Then he took a few steps over to the window, which overlooked the Queen’s garden.

  “Come,” he said.

  She walked to stand beside him.

  “You’re a fighter as well, I am told.”

  “My father insisted that all of his children be trained, and I’ve spent my time riding with the armsmen on patrol,” she said, though it had been nearly two years since she had held a sword in her hand for anything except a practice bout.

  “Ragenilda loves the gardens,” Olafur said. “They were her mother’s favorites, and so she feels close to her when she spends time in them.”

  Solveig made an encouraging noise, even as she wondered at the strange turn the conversation had taken. The King had nearly accused her of treason and now he wished to confide in her? Perhaps the events of these last days had indeed unsettled his mind.

  “She will be loath to leave them,” Olafur said.

  “Indeed?”

  “Empress Thania has invited Ragenilda to visit her court. She feels the Princess would benefit from an extended stay in Selvarat and the opportunity to get to know Prince Nathan, her future consort.”

  “I see,” Solveig said. It had long been rumored that Ragenilda would be married off to a Selvarat prince, and Nathan had been the name most often mentioned. The marriage would be some time off, the Princess having just turned eleven. But spending a few years in a Selvarat court, dependent on her future in-laws, would shape the Princess into the kind of ruler who would accede to Empre
ss Thania’s demands. And she would make an excellent hostage to guarantee her father’s good behavior.

  “My daughter is a gentle soul. I protected her too much. Perhaps I should have been like your father and trained her in the arts of war. But now it is too late.”

  It was hard not to feel sympathy for him. To see him, not as a king, but as a bewildered father who was desperate to protect his daughter.

  “What do you plan to do?” she asked. She knew what her father would do in this situation, but her father had five children to carry the burden of his hopes and obligations. Olafur had only one daughter, and a frail reed she was to bear the weight of the Kingdom.

  “I want you to return to Esker. To consult with your father,” Olafur said.

  She blinked in astonishment. Surely this was a trap of some sort. Perhaps he feared having her disappear publicly, and so had made arrangements that she would be taken while on the road, thus making sure no one in the court knew of her fate.

  But even that did not make sense.

  “Do you have a message for my father?”

  “He will know the message when he sees you. You will travel in a small party, and you will take along your maid.”

  “But—” Solveig did not have a personal maid, relying upon the palace servants for those tasks she did not perform herself.

  Olafur touched her arm. “You will leave as soon as possible. You may take a small escort of those you trust with your life, but not large enough to draw attention to yourself. And you will take along a young girl, one whom you will tell others you are training to be your maid.”

  She drew a deep breath as she realized the implications of what he was asking. “I think it would best if she were my niece. My brother Marten’s daughter, traveling from Tyoga to spend the season with her cousins in Esker.”

  Marten had a daughter of the right age. It would fit if no one examined her story too closely. They would have to keep Ragenilda well hidden until they were some distance from Kingsholm, but once they were beyond its walls, it was unlikely anyone would see through their deception. Ragenilda was too young for her face to be on coins, and few outside the court would recognize her.