Devlin's Justice (14 page)

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 know 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.

She had no such illusions. Devlin was dead, Rikard imprisoned and Devlin’s other supporters driven into hiding. The Kingdom was crumbling around them and her own future was bleak. That she would be killed was a certainty. Her only choice was whether she would wait for the King to accuse her of treason, or if she would deliberately court danger, choosing the time and manner of her death.

She gulped the rest of her wine and slid the empty goblet across the floor. It rolled and came to a rest by Didrik’s foot. He gave her a hard look, then righted the goblet and filled it with the last of the wine. Carefully, he handed it back to her, then without being prompted snagged another wine bottle from the shelf behind his back.

She had not been drunk in over twenty years, not since her days as a novice guard. But this one night, she was going to make an exception.

The stone floor was cold beneath her legs, and not even the finest wine could disperse the chill in her blood. Her bones ached, a reminder that she was getting old. Too old for such foolishness, too old to be huddled on the floor of a storeroom, meeting here in secret because they had no place else.

“You should go to Esker. All of you,” she announced.

“But—” Stephen began.

“You should go. Tomorrow would not be too soon,” she said, interrupting what was sure to be another diatribe on how Stephen needed to stay here to continue the search for Devlin.

“Why Esker?” Solveig asked.

There was a woman with some intelligence. “We have lost the east and the heartlands will be next. The northwestern territories may yet survive, if they start preparing now. Your father is a strong leader, and he has the support of his neighbors. If they band together, and if you can convince the army troops stationed there to take their orders from your father, then there is a chance that you can hold the territories. A slim chance, but better than the odds of staying here.”

Didrik shook his head. “I will not abandon you, nor my sworn duty. I am still an officer of the Guard.”

“There is nothing you can do here. You will be dead as soon as you are recognized. It’s time to think of your future. All of you. Grieve for what we have lost, but save what you still can.”

“And what of you? Will you come with us?”

She shook her head. “My place is here. There are things I have left to do. I will join you when I can.”

The last was a lie. There was but one final duty remaining to her. To stand as witness to the truth and to proclaim King Olafur guilty of the murder of Devlin of Duncaer. She would make her statement in full view of the court, knowing that she would then be arrested for treason.

She knew what would happen next. She would be tortured, by members of the Guard she had once commanded. Then she would be executed. But she would die with her honor intact, having fulfilled her oath to serve justice. And perhaps some of the courtiers would hear her words and would begin to doubt Olafur. If enough of them opposed his course of action, there might be time yet to steer the Kingdom away from disaster.

She shifted position, resting her left arm on the bundle by her side.

“What is that?” Stephen asked. It was an obvious attempt to change the conversation.

She patted the bundle absently.

“Devlin’s effects,” she said. “A chamberwoman gave them to me after the service. There wasn’t much, but she thought that one of his friends should have them.”

Stephen rose to his knees and crawled the few paces that separated them. He reached for the bundle, and after a moment she released it to him.

The bundle was wrapped in a woolen blanket, no doubt taken from Devlin’s bed. It was a long, thin package, belted in three places with leather cords. Stephen undid the cords and unrolled the blanket. Inside were revealed a few trinkets, the clothes that Devlin wore when he was not wearing his uniform. And one item that she had recognized by touch without needing to unwrap the blanket. Devlin’s great axe.

“His axe,” Stephen said, as if the others might not have recognized the weapon.

“We see that,” she replied tartly.

“Now we finally have proof that Devlin was in the palace,” Didrik said. “This is what we have been searching for.”

Did they think her blind? She had known at once what it was she held. The marvel was that the king’s cronies had overlooked such an important bit of evidence. Not that she could use it. Not now.

“And what shall we do with this axe? You and Stephen are the only two people who can swear that Devlin had the axe with him when he traveled to Duncaer. And you are already under suspicion. You’d be arrested before you could give testimony.”

“But—” Stephen said.

“It is evidence enough for me. But no magistrate will hear you.”

Stephen had been Devlin’s closest friend. She would not let him throw his life away on a foolish gesture. Didrik, too, did not deserve such poor payment for his loyal service. It would be up to her to make the accusation. She was the commander of the Guard and ultimately responsible for all that went on within Kingsholm’s walls.

She heard low voices and the soft scrape of a sandal against the stone stairs. She scrambled to her feet and drew her sword.

“Peace, I have brought you a friend,” Brother Arni announced. He stepped aside and held up a lantern to reveal the features of Master Dreng.

She would not have called the mage a friend, but neither did she count him among her enemies. With a nod to the priest, she sheathed her sword.