Devlin's Justice Page 10

  With the others she rose to her feet as King Olafur entered the room, trailed by the Selvarat ambassador and Baron Martell. The nobles bowed, while Drakken and Marshal Olvarrson offered their salutes. The King acknowledged them with a wave of his hand then took his seat. The Selvarat ambassador took the seat to his right.

  As the councilors sat back down, Baron Martell made his way to the empty chair at the foot of the table. Now she knew who it was for, but not why. There should be no reason for the Baron to attend the council. Not unless he had a grievance to air or evidence to offer, and even then custom dictated that he remain standing throughout his testimony.

  “I summoned you today so you may be the first to hear of the changes that will be taking place. Changes that will strengthen and secure our kingdom, preserving the inheritance entrusted to me by my forebears, ensuring that it is passed along for generations to come,” King Olafur began.

  For a man who was informing the council of what should have been good news, he looked uncommonly grim.

  “But first, I have unfortunate news to share,” he continued, as if reading her thoughts. “Devlin of Duncaer was killed a fortnight ago.”

  King Olafur looked directly at her, and Captain Drakken did her best to appear shocked. And indeed she was startled, if only by the timing of the announcement.

  “How? Where?” Lord Rikard asked, drawing the King’s attention away from her.

  Lady Ingeleth raised her eyebrows at this breach of etiquette. One did not interrupt the King. Ever.

  But if Olafur was angry, he gave no sign.

  “He was journeying to Kalveland, or so we believe, when he was set upon by a band of robbers. A traveling merchant found his body and notified the local magistrate.” King Olafur shook his head sorrowfully. “We will never know why he chose not to return to Kingsholm, nor what duty called him north. But we are confident that Devlin was a loyal servant and remained true even in death.”

  It was skillfully done, for in praising Devlin he had also damned him. Many on the council were not Devlin’s friends, and they would be quick to seize upon the implication that Devlin had turned rogue and deserted his duty.

  “You will wish to hold a funeral service,” she heard herself say. “A tribute to one who served you so loyally and well.”

  It had been at least a decade since anyone mourned the loss of one of the Chosen Ones. But Devlin had been different, a return to the heroes of old. And if Stephen and Didrik were to be believed, he had even wielded the Sword of Light, however briefly. Though this sign of the Gods’ favor had not been enough to save his life.

  “I am certain the priest will do what is fitting,” King Olafur replied.

  Captain Drakken continued to press, even though she knew such a course of action was folly. “Brother Arni can also oversee the next choosing ceremony. There are many who will be anxious to follow the path that Devlin laid out and serve as the next Chosen One.”

  She herself would endure the trial, if no worthier candidate could be found.

  “There will be no new Chosen One named,” King Olafur said. “Indeed, if Devlin’s life has taught us one thing, it was the folly of placing all our hopes and fears upon the shoulders of a single champion. No one could live up to that burden.”

  “Many times I heard Devlin lament our custom, saying that we ought to defend ourselves rather than relying upon the Chosen One,” Lady Ingeleth observed. “He urged us to seek strength in numbers and forge new alliances.”

  The King nodded and favored Lady Ingeleth with a small smile. “Precisely.”

  Captain Drakken ground her teeth. She, too, had heard Devlin grumble about the custom of the Chosen One. He’d once said that a Jorskian would watch his house burn while waiting for rescue rather than grabbing a water bucket to fight on his own. There was some truth in Devlin’s words. The people had grown too used to depending upon someone else’s strength rather than looking to themselves.

  But Devlin would not have advocated leaving the people helpless. And that was just what they would be. There would be no one to stand up to the King, no one to oppose his tyranny. No doubt that was the very reason why Devlin had been murdered. Devlin would not have stood idly by while the King ran roughshod over his people. One by one, all those who opposed the King were being eliminated. She knew it was only a matter of time before the King decided to deal with her.

  “With the passing of the Chosen One, his council seat falls vacant. I have asked Baron Martell to join our deliberations, and he has graciously consented.”

  The Baron rose from his seat and bowed in the King’s direction. “It is my honor to serve, Your Majesty,” he said.

  So this was the price of murder. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that Martell had been involved in Devlin’s death. A council seat in return for an assassination. She knew that there were many who would consider it a fair trade.

  She turned her gaze on Lord Rikard, who squirmed uncomfortably under the regard of his fellow councilors. Most had grudgingly tolerated Rikard’s presence, and few would be saddened by his absence. As the lone representative of the troubled borderlands, even when he held his tongue his very presence served as a reminder to the other councilors that all was not well in Jorsk. On the other hand Martell was the scion of an old house, from the conservative inland provinces. He would speak no controversy.

  “All are agreed on naming Baron Martell the newest member of this honored council?” King Olafur asked. The question was for form’s sake only. Traditionally the councilors could oppose the King’s choice, but they had not done so in years.

  The King was lucky that she did not have a vote, so she merely observed as each councilor cast their vote in turn. There were no dissensions.

  As chief councilor, it fell to Lady Ingeleth to cast the final vote. “Baron Martell, I welcome you to our ranks,” she said.

  Drakken had expected no less. Lady Ingeleth had worked hard to regain the King’s favor after her defense of Lord Branstock had put her own neck at risk. The countess was too canny a politician to make another such mistake.

  “And now we come to the matter of our kingdom and its future. Earlier this spring Empress Thania and I renewed the vows of alliance, and the empress graciously sent her troops to defend our eastern provinces. We are grateful indeed for their presence, for the troubles in the region were even greater than we had been led to believe. Fortunately, our allies have not flinched from this challenge, and have expanded their offer of support. I have asked Ambassador Magaharan to explain the new arrangement.”

  The King looked even grimmer than he had when he was recounting the news of Devlin’s death. She wondered just what it was that he had had to trade away for this additional support. Princess Ragenilda was already destined for a Selvarat consort, so what else did the King have to offer? They would beggar themselves to pay for this largesse.

  “It is my honor to speak before this council, and to share the terms of Empress Thania’s alliance with your most gracious majesty, Olafur son of Thorvald. Privileged indeed are those who live under his wise rule,” Count Magaharan began.

  Such empty flattery was the currency of the court, but long years of exposure did not make it any easier to bear. Captain Drakken waited impatiently as Ambassador Magaharan and King Olafur expressed their mutual admiration.

  Finally, the ambassador got to the heart of the matter. “Our navy patrols your coastline, and our troops watch the shores,” the ambassador said. “But what good does it do to guard the door of the house if the thieves are already inside? The disorder in the provinces comes from within your borders as well. Realizing the sternest measures were called for, the field commander summoned reinforcements, who have now taken control and brought peace to these once troubled lands.”

  She noticed he was careful not to name the field commander. Indeed, the exact makeup of the forces and how many troops had arrived were a closely guarded secret, and Marshal Olvarrson had firmly refused to discuss details with her. He had
unbent enough to tell her that Karel of Maurant, who had accompanied the ambassador to Kingsholm, had been dispatched to the east to serve as liaison with the local troops. But beyond that she had heard nothing.

  “How many troops have arrived?” Lord Sygmund asked.

  The ambassador waved a hand. “I do not concern myself with the details, but I am assured that they are sufficient to ensure the peace.”

  Was that a battalion? A regiment? Whatever the answer, she’d wager her last copper that the ambassador knew the precise number of soldiers in the field, and where they were assigned.

  “Would the ambassador care to elaborate on what he meant by saying the provinces were under his protection?” Lady Ingeleth asked.

  It was King Olafur who answered.

  “We have established a special zone called the Selvarat Protectorate,” King Olafur said. “It extends east from the Southern Road, from Rosmaar down to Myrka. Those provinces within the protectorate will now take their guidance from Prince Arnaud, whom Empress Thania has named as governor of the new protectorate. The Prince and his advisors will ensure order and tranquillity, freeing our attention for other matters.”

  Drakken’s jaw dropped in shock, and she heard others mutter startled exclamations.

  “King Olafur remains the sovereign ruler of these territories,” Count Magaharan explained. “Our role is merely that of advisors.”

  But few would question this so-called advice, not when it came backed with the weight of an army.

  She shook her head fiercely to clear her thoughts. Now she understood why the King appeared so grim. He had just bargained away a third of his kingdom, a region that contained the most fertile farmlands. He was naive to think the Selvarats would let him keep the rest. Once they had secured their hold on the eastern provinces, they would take over the rest of the Kingdom.

  What fools they had been. They had been duped, welcoming the Selvarats as saviors, when in fact they were the vanguard of an invasion force. Only now with hindsight could she see what should have been clear from the beginning.

  “What of our armies in the east?” Councilor Arnulf asked. It was an unusually bold move for him, but then she remembered that one of his daughters served as a troop captain under Major Mikkelson.

  “The army has returned to the garrison in Kallarne, freeing up units to strengthen the northwestern border,” Marshal Olvarrson said.

  Arnulf nodded, seeming content with this answer.

  Lord Rikard rose to his feet. “Will no one else speak against this folly? The Selvarats are not protectors, they are thieves who have just stolen our richest lands. Are we going to give them up without a fight?”

  “Lord Rikard is overwrought,” Captain Drakken said, rising herself. It had been too much to hope that Rikard could keep his mouth shut. His homeland of Myrka was one of the provinces the King had just bargained away. But there was nothing to be gained by challenging the King in this forum.

  “If I am angered, then it is a righteous wrath,” Rikard said. “I will stand alone if I must, but I will not be silent in the face of cowardice and treason. The King has betrayed us. He has betrayed us all.”

  She winced at the damning words. Lord Rikard fairly shook with anger, but none would meet his gaze.

  “Guards,” King Olafur called.

  The council door opened, and the two guards stepped inside, ceremonial spears held at attention.

  “Rikard has uttered treason and defiled this august gathering with his presence. Arrest him.”

  The guards looked at her, and in that moment she had to make her choice.

  “Obey your King,” she ordered, her voice harsh. “Arrest him.”

  “Coward,” Rikard hissed as the guards led him away. And this time she knew the epithet was meant for her.

  Stephen shifted the heavy curtain to one side and peered at the small crowd that had gathered in the Royal Temple. A stone pillar blocked part of his view and he opened the curtain a fraction wider.

  “Stop,” Didrik hissed. “You’ll call attention to us. No one is supposed to be here, remember?”

  Stephen nodded and let the curtain fall closed again, confining his view to the narrow gap where it didn’t quite meet the wall. The small chamber where Brother Arni changed into his ceremonial robes was a tight fit for the two of them, but Stephen had insisted on witnessing the ceremony, and Didrik had insisted on accompanying him to make sure that he did nothing foolish.

  Brother Arni called out, imploring the Gods for their blessings, then led the assembled worshipers in the prayer for the dead.

  “I don’t know why I agreed to this,” Didrik whispered.

  “No one will think to look for us here,” Stephen replied. “And what better place for us to meet with Captain Drakken and Solveig? They are watched each time they leave the palace, but no one looked twice at us when we entered.”

  “We may not be as lucky when we try to leave,” Didrik retorted. “And—”

  As the congregation fell silent, Didrik closed his mouth over whatever he had been intending to say.

  Brother Arni addressed the Gods, recounting to them Devlin’s virtues and commending his spirit to the care of Lord Haakon. Stephen shivered at the ill omen. Surely it was the worst of luck to invoke Haakon’s care for a man who was not dead.

  Not that anyone was listening to Stephen. Didrik, Drakken, Solveig, even the pious Brother Arni were all convinced that Devlin was deceased. As were those who had assembled this day to mourn his passing. It was a strange gathering, for the King was conspicuously absent, despite his public proclamation of mourning. Many courtiers had stayed away as well, rather than risk the King’s wrath. So it was a surprise to see Lady Ingeleth standing in the front row, along with Captain Drakken. Lady Falda was there as well, her two daughters holding her propped up between them. She must have risen from her sickbed to be there, for Lady Falda had the look of someone who would soon make her own peace with Haakon.

  As General of the Royal Army, Devlin was entitled to a full military honor guard, but only Marshal Olvarrson and his aide were there to represent the Royal Army, standing carefully apart from the other mourners.

  That was not to say that the chapel was empty. The courtiers might have stayed away, but there were plenty of others to take their places. Among the front ranks he recognized Merchant Tyrvald, the Royal Armorer Master Timo, Mistress Alanna of the healers. Other faces were blocked from his view, but he noted that many wore dark green, the dress uniform of the guards.

  As the service drew on, the worshipers prayed fervently to the Gods for their mercy, and he wondered who it was they were praying for. Did they seek mercy for Devlin’s spirit? Or were they here to mourn the passing of the Kingdom they had once known? In just a few weeks, the Selvarat diplomats had done what generations of their armies had failed to do: conquer Jorsk. Two hundred years ago they had invaded only to be beaten back, in a bloody defeat. This time the Jorskians had welcomed them as brothers, throwing open the doors and inviting them in.

  It was tempting to wonder if Devlin could have done anything to stop it from happening. If he had been here when the Selvarat alliance was announced, would he have been the one to question their sudden willingness to help? When the troops landed on the eastern shores, would Devlin have given orders that Major Mikkelson withdraw from the garrisons? Or would he have advocated caution, seeing the risks inherent in turning power over to a foreign army that acknowledged no leader but their own?

  If Devlin had spent the winter in Kingsholm, matters might have turned out differently. And yet at the crucial moments, Devlin had been hundreds of leagues away, searching for the Sword of Light. Stephen did not understand it. None of it made sense. He believed with all his heart that Devlin was the chosen champion of the Gods, sent by them to defend Jorsk. And yet at the moment of its greatest peril, Devlin was nowhere to be found.

  It was tempting to believe that Devlin had gone off on his own, but even driven by the madness of the Geas, Devlin would kno
w that one man could not hope to defeat an army. If his duty had called him east, Devlin would have found a way to get word to his friends. Yet each day that passed without news seemed proof that Devlin had not left of his own free will.

  Which left only two other possibilities. Devlin was a prisoner, or he was dead. And the latter Stephen refused to believe.

  “More,” Captain Drakken said, thrusting her goblet in Didrik’s general direction.

  He frowned, but lifted the wine bottle and poured her another generous measure.

  She took a deep drink, then lifted the goblet to study it critically. The mismatched silver goblets were a poor replacement for the golden vessels that had been stolen when the temple was ransacked. But the sacrificial wine, at least, was first-rate. Aged Myrkan red, which was rarer than blood in the capital in recent days. It seemed the Gods believed in keeping the best for themselves.

  It was a pitiful band that gathered in the storeroom beneath the Royal Temple. Stephen and Didrik, who had shown their foolhardiness by sneaking into the palace grounds, the one place they were sure to be recognized. And Solveig, who had held her tears in public but wept for Devlin as she embraced her brother. Now she sat next to him and murmured to him reassuringly. From the set of his jaw Stephen was not pleased by what she had to say.

  No doubt Solveig was trying to convince Stephen that it was time to accept Devlin’s death. But that Stephen stubbornly refused to do.

  Some might admire his faith, but Drakken was irritated by his foolishness. All reason, all logic told her that Devlin was dead. She did not need to see his corpse. King Olafur would never have risked being caught in an obvious lie. He would not have announced Devlin’s death unless he was absolutely certain that Devlin had been killed.

  She took another gulp of wine and smiled grimly to herself. Perhaps Stephen would form a new cult, that of the Chosen One who would one day return. He would compose songs and tell tales of Devlin’s great deeds and infect others with his belief that a great champion would one day return to save them.