Devlin's Justice (42 page)

His heart quickened, which was strange. He was a man proposing a political alliance, not a callow youth proposing to his sweetheart. If Solveig rejected him, she would be rejecting the alliance, not spurning his heart. Yet, despite all logic, he held his breath as he awaited her answer.

“I accept.”

His chest eased as he finally drew a breath.

“Thank you,” he said, taking her hands in his. “We can ask your father for his consent this evening.”

An ordinary woman could marry whom she pleased, but the heir to a barony had fewer freedoms. Not that he expected Lord Brynjolf to raise any objections, but it would be discourteous not to ask his consent.

Solveig grinned. “No need. He gave his blessing before we left Esker.”

Devlin allowed Princess Ragenilda a day to rest, then early the next morning he made his way to her quarters. Three rooms were set aside for her personal use, including a bedchamber, a private sitting room for entertaining those few guests who were deemed suitable companions for the royal heir, and a small room where her maid resided. The Princess’s rooms were part of the much larger royal suite, vacant since the death of her father. As he passed the sentry who guarded the corridor that led to the royal suite, Devlin was stuck by the silence, and he realized that this would be a lonely place to be. Not that he had any intention of taking residence in the royal suite. Such a move would only provide fodder for his enemies. Nor had he any wish to discover if Olafur’s restless ghost haunted the site of his suicide.

But perhaps Ragenilda would like a change.

He knocked thrice on the door. After a brief delay it was opened by the Princess’s maid Marja.

“Your Excellency! We did not expect you. You should have sent word so we could prepare,” she scolded him, as if he were one of her charges.

“Is Ragenilda awake? Dressed?” he asked.

“Of course.” Marja drew herself stiffly erect, which meant that her glare was focused somewhere in the middle of his chest.

“Then what is your concern?”

He brushed by her, and as he entered the sitting room, Ragenilda rose, and made a brief curtsy. Devlin gave a short bow in return.

“Good morning, Your Excellency,” she said.

He grimaced. “There is no need for this ceremony. You may call me Devlin.”

“It would not be proper,” Ragenilda said, in dry tones that sounded as if her nurse had repeated this lesson often.

Devlin realized that he would have to rethink the wisdom of allowing Marja so much influence over her charge. Fortunately, the girl would have Solveig’s example to follow.

“You called the Baron Lord Brynjolf, did you not? You may call me Lord Devlin, if you wish.”

The noble title was an honorific, given to the Chosen One.

“Lord Devlin,” she repeated.

He waited as she took a seat, daintily arranging her wide skirts around her, then took his own seat.

“You may leave us, Marja,” he said, when the maid showed a tendency to hover.

The maid sniffed, then retreated to the Princess’s bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

“You know I have been named Regent for you, is that right?”

She nodded.

“And do you know what that means?”

“It means you now rule, instead of a king,” she said solemnly.

Her features were composed, giving no trace of her inner thoughts. It seemed impossible to think of her as a child, for surely no child could sit so still, without even a hint of fidgeting. But appearances were deceptive. She was still a child, and one in mourning for her father. He had to remember this and treat her accordingly.

“Being Regent means I will rule, yes,” he said. “But it means that I am a protector. As Chosen One I protected the people of Jorsk. Do you remember when I slew the lake monster?”

She gave him a shy smile. “You told the funniest story. But then one of the guards said you were a true hero, and he taught me a song about it.”

The Princess had insisted upon meeting Devlin after his defeat of the giant skrimsal, and King Olafur had indulged his daughter’s wishes. She had been amused by Devlin’s tale of accidental heroics, though the Gods only knew what kind of song she had been taught. For a few months afterward there had been some truly awful ballads circulating. He still remembered Stephen’s attempt. . . .

He forced his mind back to the matter at hand. “Now I have a new duty. As Regent I am to protect you, until the day you are ready to assume the throne and rule as Queen. And I am to protect your inheritance, ensuring that you have a prosperous Kingdom to rule over.”

It would not be the same Kingdom her father had governed. Too much had changed and would continue to change. Turning peasants into warriors had enabled Devlin to defeat the Selvarat armies, but it had also changed the balance of power between the commoners and the nobles who ruled them. Abusive and incompetent landholders would no longer be tolerated by a people who had learned what it was to defend themselves.

It would take time to sort out the changes, and for both sides to come to a new understanding of their rights and duties. Time to restore prosperity to those areas that had suffered most under the invaders. Time to build new alliances and ensure that the Kingdom’s safety was not threatened again.

“And what will you do when I become Queen?” she asked.

He realized that she needed more from him than a promise that he would see to her political future. He was not just the guardian of the realm, he was also the guardian of a child, one who had no nearkin to care for her.

“As Queen you will be able to choose your own councilors, though you may always call upon me at need,” he said. “I cannot replace your father, but I swear to you that I will care for you as if you were my own. As will Solveig Brynjolfsdatter, who has agreed to become my wife.”

Ragenilda considered this for a moment, before switching topics. “You did not like my father.”

“We did not agree,” Devlin said. He hesitated, before deciding that plain speaking was best. “In the days and years to come you will hear many things about your father. Some good, some bad. From what I knew of him, he was not a brave man, nor was he wise. But he loved you, and that is how you should remember him.”

It was a fine epitaph for a man, but a poor one for a King. Ragenilda would have to work hard to overcome her father’s legacy. Still, they had time to teach her what it meant to be a wise ruler and to show her what was possible when power was allied with justice.

“Very well. I accept you as my Regent, Lord Devlin,” Ragenilda said, in the tones of one granting a royal favor.

Her dignity was such that he did not point out that she had no choice in the matter.

“I thank you for your confidence,” he said.

Epilogue

D
EVLIN PULLED THE HOOD OF HIS CLOAK
forward, hiding his distinctive features. The gray sky above whispered of the approach of dawn, but the streets were still dark, and the guttering torches served more as signposts than actual illumination. The streets were quiet, and he encountered only a handful of other souls—lovers or drunkards seeking their own beds and those whose labors began before the sun. None spared him a glance. And why should they? Who would believe that the man in his tattered cloak was in fact the Lord Regent of the Kingdom?

Such anonymity was a rare gift these days. Captain Embeth had assigned personal guards to him, over his objections, and few indeed were the times when he was allowed to appear in public without one of her watchful shadows. A faint smile touched his lips as he thought of how she would react when she learned that he had disappeared. Those assigned to watch him would be roundly castigated, and Embeth would berate him for his folly, then demand to know just how he had managed to slip away unnoticed so she could plug the holes in her security.

He might even tell her, if he was in the mood. Though by now she should have learned to expect the unexpected from him. The other nobles she had guarded were content to stay in the places assigned to them, but Devlin was not above a bit of subterfuge. Nor was he too dignified to crawl out a window, as he had done this morning.

He reached the tavern known as the Singing Fish just as the sky turned pink with the dawn. Even at that hour he saw a light burning in the common room, and as he made his way around the tavern to the stables behind, he saw a solitary figure saddling his horse.

“A fine day for a journey,” he said.

The saddlebag slipped from Stephen’s hands, falling to the ground. Stephen whirled around and stared at Devlin, his mouth open. At that moment he bore a striking resemblance to the carved wooden fish that had given the tavern its name.

Devlin reached down and picked up the saddlebag, then began to tie it to the rings on the saddle.

Stephen finally found his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I have come to see you off, and wish you well. Is that not what friends do?”

“But how did you know?”

Devlin finished the last tie, then tugged the bag, testing to make sure that it would not shift as Stephen rode.

“I’ve been expecting this for some time now,” he said. “And then last night, I knew you were saying good-bye.”

“But I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.”

It had been obvious to any who knew him well that Stephen was not happy in Kingsholm. Yet he had stayed, as winter passed and turned to spring. He had stood witness at the quiet ceremony that bound Devlin and his sister Solveig in marriage. He had been proud as his father was named councilor, watching as those who had once scorned Lord Brynjolf now paid heed to his words and asked his advice. But the games of politics had never interested Stephen, and as his family was cast into greater prominence, Stephen more and more often sought the shadows.

Still he had stayed until he was certain that Devlin no longer needed him. The coming of spring had seen the arrival of a new ambassador from Selvarat, one who offered Empress Thania’s regrets for the recent misunderstandings. Those flowery sentiments were accompanied by a complete capitulation to Devlin’s demands, as the Selvarat troops who had survived the winter embarked upon ships and sailed back to their homelands. Lady Gemma of Esker and her daughter Madrene had journeyed with the ambassador, and Stephen’s pleasure in seeing his family reunited had kept him in Kingsholm weeks after Devlin had thought he would leave.

But now, as summer drew near, he had decided to go.

“Where are you bound?” Devlin asked.

Stephen shrugged. “I will wander where the roads take me. You will hear from me from time to time. Or perhaps you will hear one of my songs.”

He would be glad indeed to hear one of Stephen’s songs. Music had always been a part of Stephen, so much so that Devlin had taken it for granted, until the day he realized that Stephen no longer played at the campfire at night, nor did he quiz strangers trying to learn new songs from them. Devlin had cast his mind back, and had realized that sometime during the rebellion, Stephen’s voice had grown silent and his hands had gone still. He had asked about it once, but Stephen had said only that he had no heart for playing. His tone had been so bleak that Devlin had not asked again.

It was ironic. Once he had forbidden Stephen to make any songs about the Chosen One, feeling that it was somehow indecent that strangers would sing of his struggles and despair. Yet now Devlin would be well pleased even to hear the atrocious ballad of his battle with the lake monster. Anything that would put the light of enthusiasm back in Stephen’s face.

Stephen’s had been the greatest innocence, so perhaps it was no wonder that he was the most scarred by what they had seen and done. Still there was a part of Devlin that wished he had been able to protect him. If he had been a better friend to Stephen, he would have never let him accompany him on his adventures.

“I promised that you could sing whatever you pleased, if we both survived this,” Devlin said, trying for a light tone.

Stephen smiled, and this time it nearly reached his eyes. “And what would you have me sing of you?”

“Say that I ruled well, and retired to live a peaceful life, surrounded by my friends,” Devlin said.

“If that is what you wish,” he said. “Though I think they would rather hear about the Sword—”

Devlin pulled Stephen into a rough embrace, cutting off his musings. “Remember, there is a place for you whenever you wish to return. No matter what happens, you will always be my friend.”

He released Stephen from his grasp. A small part of him wanted to tell Stephen to wait, that Devlin would find a horse and join him, traveling the roads together as they had done in the early days of their friendship. But duty bound Devlin to this place. He could not leave, and he was not selfish enough to keep Stephen here.

“Safe journey, Stephen of Esker,” he said.

“I’ve trusted you with my sister and my kingdom,” Stephen said. “Take care of them both, Devlin of Duncaer.”

“That I will,” he vowed. “That I will.”

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