Devlin's Justice (34 page)

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 Empress 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.

“Are you certain you wish to do this? I will guard the Princess with my life, but is there not another you would trust more?”

There were those in the court who were tied to the King by blood or decades of political alliance. Surely it made more sense that he would turn to one of them as someone he could trust to protect Ragenilda while not abusing the power that she represented.

“I cannot risk her being taken to Selvarat. Even if the rest of the Kingdom falls, Esker and the northwestern provinces may yet endure,” Olafur said. “If the worst comes to it, I trust your father will protect Ragenilda until the day she is able to reclaim her inheritance.”

“That he will,” Solveig said.

She could taste the irony in the situation. For years, Lord Brynjolf and the other Barons in the northwestern borderlands had been abandoned by the King, forced to rely upon each other for protection from the border raiders. They had built up their defenses, recruited armsmen, and—with Devlin’s help—prepared themselves to defend against an invasion. Of all the provinces in Jorsk, they were the ones who were most ready for a war. And now King Olafur was forced to turn to those he had once ignored and beg them for their help.

“Swear to me that you will keep her safe,” Olafur said.

She took his right hand and clasped it between her own. “I pledge to do all in my power to deliver her safely to Esker. As Baron, my father will protect the Princess. And as a father, he will treat her as one of his own daughters.”

Which was not to say that Ragenilda would be coddled. Far from it. Instead, Brynjolf would do his best to see that Ragenilda was fit to lead a kingdom at war, or to survive in the Selvarat court, if such was to be her ultimate fate.

It was the best that the Princess could hope for. It was the best that any of them could hope for.

Twenty-three

O
LUVA DREW HER HORSE ALONGSIDE
D
IDRIK
’
S
as the walls of the keep came into view. “I keep looking around for the Chosen One, wondering why his litter bearers have wandered off.”

Didrik kept his silence. The same thought had occurred to him, more than once on this journey, not that he would admit it to her.

“Do you suppose the Gods are punishing us? It doesn’t seem right that we have to bluff our way into the same keep twice. Surely once was enough for a lifetime.”

Didrik nodded in reluctant agreement. He had never thought to return to this place. The previous spring, he, Devlin, and Oluva, along with a handful of others, had deceived their way into the keep and arrested the Baron Egeslic as a traitor. It seemed a lifetime ago, back when his only concerns had been ensuring Devlin’s safety and deciding whether Mikkelson and his soldiers were to be trusted.

“At least this time we won’t have to clean vomit off our boots,” she added, referring to Devlin’s impersonation of a dying man.

Her constant cheerfulness grated on his nerves. It was nearly as bad as traveling with Stephen. Well it was for her to jest and make light of their situation. She was not the one in command. Having taken the keep once by stealth, he now must do it again. And this time there was no Chosen One to lead. This time their success or failure would rest squarely on Didrik’s shoulders.

“Drop back along the lines and remind the others of their orders. They are to look bored, but alert. While we are gone, Arvid is in charge, and he is the only one to speak.”

“They know that,” she said.

“Then remind them again.”

She glared at him before giving him an irregular salute. “Yes, sir,” she said.

She slowed her horse and he could hear her speaking to the first of the riders that followed. Knowing that he could be observed from the walls of the keep, Didrik fought the urge to turn around for a final check on his company.

He knew what the watchers would see. A band of two dozen mercenaries, openly approaching the keep, with no attempt to conceal themselves. Those who accompanied him today had been chosen not so much for their fighting skills as for the fact that they fit into one of the uniforms that had been taken during their raids.

Didrik’s own tunic had been hastily cleaned and a large gash in the back sewn shut. Fortunately, the short cape of a mercenary captain covered the repair. His skin itched from the wrongness of wearing a dead man’s clothes. He hardly recognized himself. It was not just the strange garb or the fact that he had cut his warrior’s braid and instead sported the short-cropped hair of a barbarian. Those were merely the outside changes.

The man inside had changed as well. From the time he was a boy, he had wanted nothing more than to join the Guard. He had enlisted on his sixteenth birthday and quickly learned that it was not merely weapons skill that made the Guard such an effective force. It was discipline and order, held together by adherence to regulations and the long traditions of service. He had taken his lessons to heart, and he had risen from private to sergeant, then to lieutenant.