Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  One of his watchers hissed at the insult, as Devlin relinquished his grasp upon Olafur, letting his head loll to one side.

  “Cover him,” he ordered, then turned to face Lieutenant, no Captain, Embeth.

  “Tell me again what happened,” he said.

  “The King met with his councilors last night, after receiving your message. He ordered that the city be prepared to welcome you. Then he retired to his private sitting room. We found a bottle of poison by his side. It appears that it did not act swiftly enough, so he turned to the knife.”

  “And no one heard anything? No one heard him cry out?”

  “The guards were outside the entrance to the royal suites. They heard nothing. A chamberman found the King’s body as he was preparing to bank the fires for the night,” Embeth reported.

  Indeed the thick walls of the sitting room and its interior location could mask a multitude of sins, from an illicit liaison to a horror like Devlin’s betrayal. There was a grim symmetry in the fact that Olafur’s blood stained the floor not far from where Saskia had spilled her own life.

  But why had he killed himself? Had he really feared Devlin so much? Had he thought that Devlin intended to murder him? It only showed how little Olafur had understood him. Devlin had sought satisfaction, yes, but he would not have murdered Olafur.

  Strange how the King’s cowardice proved to be his final undoing. Terrified by the thought of Devlin’s revenge, he had chosen for himself a far harsher punishment than Devlin would ever have inflicted.

  And now it was up to Devlin to clean up the mess that the King had left behind.

  “Who knows of this?” he asked.

  “Only a handful of us know. The chamberman who found the body is in seclusion along with the guards who were on duty when the body was discovered. These two have kept watch over the King’s body, while the guards outside were told nothing except that the King was not to be disturbed. Although Lady Ingeleth may suspect something is awry. She was quite angry when I refused her admittance earlier,” Embeth reported.

  Her quick thinking had preserved the calm, but it would not last long. Knowing that Devlin was arriving in the city that morning, Embeth had implemented the plans she had made long ago with Captain Drakken. Before dawn trusted members of the Guard had rounded up those of their number who were suspected traitors, confining them to the goal before seeking out the members of the court who were equally suspect. Over a dozen courtiers were either confined to their chambers or guests of the Guard, including Baron Martell, whose armsmen had betrayed Devlin, and Count Magaharan, the Selvarat ambassador.

  Even if all those sworn to secrecy held their tongues, it would soon become obvious that Olafur was no longer in charge of Kingsholm.

  “Fetch Lady Ingeleth. And Marshal Olvarrson, if he can be found,” Devlin ordered. “And send messages to the rest of the King’s Council that they are to meet in one hour.”

  Embeth saluted again. She had developed an odd taste for formality, but Devlin was too tired to correct her. She disappeared for a moment, speaking softly to those outside before returning.

  Devlin noticed that she was careful not to glance at the shrouded body. Indeed, all present had turned their heads away. Even the sentries on either side of the bed faced outward, guarding against threat. He glanced at Stephen, who had remained unusually quiet; but if Stephen was troubled, he gave no sign. Strangely, that disturbed Devlin more than it would have if Stephen had appeared ill. Once such a sight would have sent the minstrel stumbling from the room. Now Stephen had grown hardened to such horrors, as indeed, they all had.

  Devlin ran the fingers of his good hand through his hair, noticing that it was still chill and damp from the melted snow. The room was cold—no fire had been lit in deference to the King’s body.

  Olafur’s death had shocked him, but as Devlin gathered his wits, he realized that his purpose in coming was unchanged. He still needed the same things—provisions, arms, and troops to reinforce those who had grown weary with battle. His goals had not changed, only the means by which he must achieve them.

  Lady Ingeleth arrived swiftly, before his panic overwhelmed him. Hard on her heels was Marshal Olvarrson. Both were dressed in their court finery, but the effect was ruined, for they arrived out of breath, as if they had run the length of the palace. And, indeed, perhaps they had.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Lady Ingeleth asked as she crossed the threshold.

  Devlin stepped aside so she could see the King’s body.

  “What have you done?” she demanded, striding swiftly into the room.

  The chief councilor was elderly, but she did not lack for courage. She had practically accused Devlin of murder, even though she could see that he was surrounded by those loyal to him.

  “Uncover his face,” he ordered.

  Lady Ingeleth’s steps slowed as she approached the bed, and the guard drew down the coverlet to reveal Olafur’s tormented visage.

  “As you can see, this was done last night. Long before I arrived,” Devlin said.

  Lady Ingeleth swallowed convulsively, but she stood her ground. Marshal Olvarrson fared less well, for he turned pale as he beheld the King’s body.

  “He took his own life rather than face me,” Devlin said. His eyes caught and held Olvarrson’s. “The King killed himself in his private sitting room, surrounded by reminders of his betrayal.”

  The Marshal took two hasty steps back, only to find his retreat blocked by Captain Drakken. His eyes widened as he caught sight of one who had been proclaimed a traitor.

  “You cannot blame me. I was acting under orders from my King,” Olvarrson began. His face was dotted with perspiration.

  “You had a choice,” Captain Drakken said. She drew her sword from its scabbard, holding it lightly in her right hand, as if she were preparing to duel. “We all had a choice. Olafur chose the path of dishonor and betrayal, but you did not have to follow him.”

  Lady Ingeleth’s eyes widened as she observed this interplay. She had not been present on the fateful night when Devlin was betrayed, although surely she must have had her suspicions about what had occurred.

  “Olafur has already paid his debt. Will you?” Captain Drakken asked, raising the point of her sword so that it was aimed at Olvarrson’s heart.

  “Please, my lord, I beg your mercy.” Olvarrson’s voice broke.

  Suddenly Devlin had had enough. He understood Drakken’s anger, but Olvarrson was merely a contemptible worm. A feeble target for their wrath, since they had been deprived of their rightful prey. Olvarrson’s fault was that he had been blindly loyal to a bad king, and though he was dishonored, he did not deserve a cold-blooded execution. “Hold. Drakken put back your sword,” he said.

  Drakken muttered, but did as she was ordered.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Olvarrson began, but then, seeing Devlin’s face, had the good sense to shut up.

  “Where is Princess Ragenilda? Has she been told of her father’s death?”

  “Ragenilda is not in Kingsholm,” Embeth said. “She was preparing to leave on a journey to Selvarat, but instead she was spirited out of the city by Solveig, who took Ragenilda to join her father in Esker.”

  “King Olafur professed himself most aggrieved by the kidnapping, but in truth he seemed rather relieved that the girl was safe from the intrigues of the court,” Lady Ingeleth added. “It is rumored that he had spoken with Solveig Brynjolfsdatter only a few days before she conceived her mad plan.”

  Devlin breathed a sigh of relief. He owed much to Solveig for keeping Ragenilda safe. If the Princess had been taken to Selvarat, then the King’s death would have been a disaster indeed. As it was, perhaps something could be salvaged from the mess he had left behind.

  “Stephen, I need you to go to Esker and bring back the Princess. Take as many of the Guard as you need, but bring her here swiftly.”

  It would be a hard journey, but Brynjolf was unlikely to release his prize to any messenger other than his own so
n.

  “What should I tell her?”

  “Tell her she is needed here and must return.”

  “I mean what should I tell her about this?” Stephen waved his hand in the direction of the bed.

  Devlin hesitated. “Tell her that her father is dead,” he said. He would not let the girl travel here in false hopes of a reunion. Better that she hear the news from Stephen than from some chance gossip on the road.

  “And what do you intend to do with the Princess?” Lady Ingeleth asked.

  “Guard her. She will be the next Queen of Jorsk. That is if you and your fellow councilors can be persuaded to put aside your petty quarrels and join with me in saving the Kingdom.”

  Twenty-six

  IN THE END, IT WAS NEARLY TWO HOURS before Devlin was ready to meet with the remaining councilors. It was not deliberate discourtesy on his part, though he knew that some would see it as such. Rather it was that there were suddenly a hundred demands upon his attention.

  After leaving the King’s chamber, he had reviewed with Embeth the list of those she had taken into protective custody. Nearly a quarter of the Guard, and all of the newest recruits, had been gaoled, until their loyalties could be proven one way or another. Embeth had erred on the side of caution, but it was troubling to learn that some of those who had not previously been suspected had chosen to desert once they saw what was happening to their comrades. In time, they too would have to be hunted down.

  The city was calm, but Embeth had suggested extra patrols to keep order when the news of the King’s death was announced. The defections and the need to watch their newly acquired prisoners had stretched the Guard thin, so he authorized Embeth to draw upon the members of his escort and delegated Captain Drakken to make the necessary arrangements. Embeth, he noticed, was quick to defer to Captain Drakken, but after serving as Captain of the City Guard for these past months, it would be difficult for her to be demoted to a mere lieutenant again. Not to mention a poor reward for her loyal service. Nor could he slight Drakken. That was just one of the problems that he would have to solve in the coming days.

  Brother Arni had been summoned to take charge of the King’s body. Lady Ingeleth had asked what Devlin intended for funeral arrangements, to which Devlin had replied that he cared naught, as long as it was swift, as befit a country at war. He would not pretend to mourn for Olafur, but neither was he so petty that he would deny those who had served the king the chance to pay their final respects. Let Olafur be buried with his ancestors in the royal tomb. History would pass its own judgment upon the failed King.

  He had written a letter to Baron Brynjolf, and a separate one to Solveig, which Stephen would carry with him. Then he had left Stephen to make his preparations for the journey, along with Oluva, who was personally selecting those of the Guard who would form the escort.

  And that was another matter. The Guard was being pulled in a dozen different directions, forced to bear the burden of responsibilities far beyond its scope. Yet for now, it was the only effective fighting force in Kingsholm. The royal garrison was nearby, but whether its officers could be trusted was a matter for another day.

  For the present he had a roomful of council members, who were impatiently awaiting his presence. As he approached the council chamber, he saw Captain Drakken waiting outside, along with a pair of guards who were there for more than mere ceremony. She had found time to change into her dress uniform, which one of the Guard must have saved for her all these long months.

  Devlin had no time for such niceties. Expecting to meet with the King, he had dressed in a clean tunic and leggings that morning, but it was a far cry from the formal uniform of the Chosen One. Only the Sword of Light, which he still wore in its harness, proclaimed his rank. It would have to be enough.

  He nodded, and at his signal the nearest guard swung open the door of the council chamber. He could hear the murmur of conversation, which fell silent as he entered, followed by Captain Drakken. A few appeared surprised to see him, and even more surprised when the doors were swiftly swung shut.

  Devlin strode to the head of the table, where there were two empty chairs—the center chair that belonged to King Olafur, and the seat immediately to its left. Once, during a brief period of amicability, that seat had belonged to Devlin as the Chosen One, before Olafur’s scheming had driven Devlin away from Kingsholm and his rightful place on the council.

  Devlin was the center of all eyes, yet no one greeted him or expressed their gratitude for his miraculous survival. Instead, a few frowned at his unkempt appearance, while more than one regarded the Sword of Light with a thoughtful expression.

  One did not bear arms in the council chamber. Ever. Yet here was the Chosen One, wearing a sword, and the supposed traitor Captain Drakken, now in uniform and clearly armed as well. It was a powerful message to those who had learned to read the shifting alliances of the court from the subtlest of clues.

  “Has the King been delayed?” Lord Sygmund asked. It seemed the others had deferred to him to speak. As one of the few neutral members of the council, he was not Devlin’s friend, but neither was he his foe.

  “Olafur is dead, killed by his own hand during the night,” Devlin said bluntly.

  There were a few gasps, and Councilor Arnulf blanched.

  “May the Gods have mercy,” Lord Baldur said, making the sign for ill luck.

  With the exception of Lady Ingeleth and Marshal Olvarrson, the council members appeared genuinely surprised. Apparently the pair had held their tongues, which argued that they saw the value of cooperating with him. At least for the present.

  “Is there anyone who can vouch for how he died?” Councilor Arnulf asked.

  “I have seen the King’s body, and it appears that he did indeed perish during the night,” Lady Ingeleth said. “The Guards were informed of his death and chose to keep the news quiet until the Chosen One arrived.”

  Her words were carefully phrased. Devlin might not have killed the King by his own hand, but there would be those who would assume that the King had been murdered by someone acting under Devlin’s orders. Even Lady Ingeleth might well believe him capable of such a deed, and there was no way to prove his innocence.

  But either way, they would have to work with him. Either because they trusted in his honor and believed in his cause, or because they feared sharing Olafur’s fate. It did not matter why they obeyed him, only that they did so.

  Devlin, who had remained standing, took his seat at the head of the table, in the chair that had once belonged to Olafur. He motioned for Captain Drakken to take the seat next to him, but she shook her head and instead stood directly behind him, so she could direct the full force of her attention upon the council members.

  “Do we now call you King?” Lady Ingeleth’s expression was sour, but he could only admire her courage. Here was a woman who was not afraid to speak the hard truths. It was a wonder she had lasted as long in Olafur’s court as she had.

  “I am what I have been. Devlin of Duncaer. Chosen One, General of the Royal Army,” he said.

  “And leader of a ragtag mob,” Councilor Arnulf added.

  “And leader of the Army of the People, whose ranks include your own daughter. A woman of courage and conviction, you may be justly proud to call her your own,” Devlin said.

  Arnulf frowned as if searching for some hidden meaning, but Devlin had meant the praise honestly. Troop Captain Arnulfsdatter had indeed acquitted herself well, once she had gotten over the shock of commanding irregular forces rather than the highly disciplined troops of the Royal Army. She was one of the many whose service would have to be rewarded.

  “Princess Ragenilda will be brought from Esker,” Devlin said. “In time, she will rule here as Queen.”

  “With you as consort?” Lord Baldur asked.

  Devlin stared at him, wondering how anyone could imagine him capable of such a foul deed. “She is a child,” he said.

  “Not too young to be pledged,” Lady Ingeleth pointed out.


  Ragenilda was all of eleven summers, while Devlin himself was rapidly approaching his thirtieth year. He was old enough to be her father. He knew that such dynastic matches were not unheard of among the members of the nobility, but he could not comprehend how a grown man could contemplate taking a child to his bed. Even if he waited until she was of age, she would still be a youthful maiden, while he would remain a man grown old before his time, scarred by what he had done and the horrors he had witnessed.

  Not that he had any wish to be King, either in name or as the power behind the Queen. Though there were few present who would believe him. Power was the game of the court, and ambition the language spoken by all. They would not understand one who had no interest in their games.

  “In five years, Ragenilda will be old enough to assume the throne, then she may make what alliance she chooses. Until that day I will act as Regent. With the blessings of the council, of course.”

  “Of course,” Councilor Arnulf echoed.

  “What do you want?” Lord Baldur asked.

  What he wanted was to walk out of the room and take himself far from these people. He had given them two years of his life, and now the task ahead of him would consume him for years to come. Yet he stayed, knowing that there was no one else who could take his place. To name any other as regent was to risk civil war. Only the Chosen One could command the obedience of the common people and the nobles alike. The people’s army that he had raised would not lightly lay down its arms, nor would it follow any save Devlin or his chosen successor. And only by becoming Regent could he fulfill the oath he had made, to ensure that the people of Jorsk had the chance to live in peace.

  “By the time Ragenilda assumes the throne, I intend to hand over to her a Kingdom that is peaceful, its borders secure,” Devlin said.

  No one sneered openly, but a few wore expressions of mild disbelief. They did not worry him. It was those whose faces he could not read who would bear the most watching in the coming days.

  “And there is one thing you will give me. I want Duncaer.”