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.”
“You want what?” Baldur’s voice rose.
“I want Duncaer,” Devlin repeated. “Mine, to dispose of as I see fit.”
Councilor Arnulf smiled, apparently pleased that Devlin had finally said something he understood. “So you disdain our throne for kingship over your own people?”
“It costs you nothing to give it to me,” Devlin said. “Kollinar emptied the garrisons when he took his troops to fight the invaders. Attempting to reconquer Duncaer would cost you treasure and lives, neither of which you have to waste.”
“I see no harm in doing so. Though we cannot force your people to acknowledge you as ruler,” Lady Ingeleth cautioned.
That was unimportant, since Devlin had no intention of trying to rule over Duncaer. Still, it was the price of his cooperation, and it would make the councilors feel that they had negotiated with him. Even grudging allies were better than those who must be subdued by force.
“Shall we put it to the vote? I agree to serve as Regent for no more than five years, and in return Duncaer will be given into my care.”
“I recommend that the council accept your proposal,” Lady Ingeleth said. “Stability must be preserved, and there are no other suitable candidates for Regent.”
Lady Ingeleth, at least, could read the shifting winds of fortune and power. No doubt she wished to serve as chief councilor of the new Regent’s Council. Devlin had already assigned her such role, for the continuity would reassure the nervous members of the court. But he had said nothing to her of his decision, for he intended to see that she worked hard to earn the position.
Lady Ingeleth turned to her right, fixing her gaze on Lord Baldur. Like herself, Baldur was a longtime courtier, having served both Olafur and his father Thorvald. Baldur was a traditionalist who bore no love for the Chosen One, but he would favor any arrangement that preserved Ragenilda’s claim to the throne.
“I concur,” Baldur said in a clear voice. “Devlin of Duncaer shall serve as Regent until the Princess reaches her sixteenth birthday.”
Devlin watched impassively as each councilor in turn cast his or her vote in favor of his Regency. Some were more enthusiastic than others, but there were no dissents.
Only Marshal Olvarrson was silent, for he had a seat on the council but no vote.
“It seems we are in agreement. Lady Ingeleth, may I ask you to draft a proclamation of the King’s death and the announcement of the Regency? It would be best if the people heard the news from the palace rather than from gossip.”
“Of course,” Lady Ingeleth replied.
“And now, for the next matter of business before this council. Given my post as Regent, I must relinquish the generalship of the Royal Army,” Devlin said. He noticed a few surprised looks at his willingness to relinquish at least some of the power he now held. Of course the same fools had little notion of what was truly involved in leading the army, while at the same time trying to govern a realm. A man could answer one challenge or the other, but not both. Not successfully. And it was best that he begin as he meant to go on.
“Marshal Olvarrson has expressed a wish to retire from service,” Devlin continued. Olvarrson had actually said a great deal more, including pleading for his life. Devlin had agreed to let him retire quietly, without retribution. He felt nothing but contempt for Olvarrson, but Devlin realized that he himself bore part of the blame. He had been the one to elevate Olvarrson to the rank of Marshal. He should have known the man was not fit for the post he held. It was a lesson that Devlin would not soon forget. “A messenger has been sent to Kollinar, Earl of Tiernach, summoning him to take leadership of the Royal Army,” Devlin announced.
“An interesting choice,” Councilor Arnulf observed. “I am certain he will serve you well.”
“Lord Kollinar has shown initiative and the ability to put the needs of Jorsk ahead of personal concerns. Would that all could say the same,” Devlin replied.
He and Kollinar had had a tense relationship during his sojourn in Jorsk, but Kollinar had proven his mettle when the crisis came. And as one long exiled from the machinations of the court, he owed no allegiance to any of the factions that would be maneuvering for power.
Not to mention that, as Earl of Tiernach, Kollinar came from one of the old noble families. His bloodlines would appeal to the conservative factions of the court, those most likely to take umbrage at the declaration that they must pay homage to the foreign-born metalsmith who ruled as Regent.
Devlin had been tempted to name Mikkelson as General, but Mikkelson was still too young for the post. Instead he planned to name him a Marshal, placing him in charge of the defense of the east. As it was, Mikkelson would have gone from ensign to Marshal in less than two years, a feat no doubt unparalleled in the ranks of the Royal Army.
“And now, for the next matter of business, what message do you intend to give the Selvarat ambassador?” Lady Ingeleth asked.
“Leave him to me,” Devlin replied.
Count Magaharan bowed low, his left arm tucked behind him, his right hand sweeping forward in the flourishing gesture he used for the most formal of occasions. He held the pose for a half dozen heartbeats before straightening.
“Lord Devlin, this is an unexpected honor,” the ambassador said. Only the faintest glint in his eyes indicated that he was aware of the irony of his words. Indeed, he looked remarkably composed for a man who had been roused from his bed in the dark hours of the night and brought under guard to the palace. Erring on the side of caution, Embeth had confined the ambassador in the small suite of rooms that was set aside for his use when he chose to stay in the palace rather than in his personal residence. It was more diplomatic than a gaol cell, but the message was the same.
“Surely you must have known this day would come,” Devlin said. “Once you learned that I had escaped Arnaud’s custody.”
“I expected we would meet again, though confidentially I thought it would be later rather than sooner,” Magaharan said. With his free hand he gestured to the chairs that flanked the fireplace. “Shall we sit and discuss affairs as civilized men?”
Devlin shrugged and took the nearest seat, one which gave him full view of the door. There was a guard stationed outside, but it did no harm to be careful. He had left the Sword of Light in his chambers, knowing that the legendary weapon of Jorsk would hold little meaning for a foreigner. But he had his throwing knives in their forearm sheathes, and two daggers openly displayed in his boot tops. Just in case.
He had not forgotten that Magaharan had been one of the witnesses to his betrayal.
“Shall I summon a servant to bring us wine? There are a few bottles of my private stock still here that I would offer. I know that your people place a great store upon hospitality.”
So he had studied the ways of the Caerfolk. If he had taken time to study their history as well, he might have had some inkling of the forces that Devlin could unleash.
“I do not accept gifts from my enemies,” Devlin said.
Count Magaharan leaned back in his seat, the relaxed pose of a man who had no serious worries. “But are we enemies? There is a peasant uprising in the east, or so it is rumored, but our countries remain firm allies. Your wise King and my gracious Empress have pledged their eternal friendship.”
“Olafur is dead. Killed by his own hand, last night.”
Magaharan’s head jerked, startled by the news or perhaps merely by Devlin’s blunt statement. No doubt one of the King’s councilors would have taken a quarter hour to broach such a sensitive topic.
But Devlin was not a courtier, and it was well that Magaharan he reminded of that fact.
“An hour ago, Lady Ingeleth sent out the proclamation of the King’s death and announced that I had been chosen as Regent for Princess Ragenilda,” Devlin said. “And my first act as Regent was to dissolve the alliance with Selvarat.”
Magaharan stroked his narrow chin with the fingers of his right hand. “Certainly I would be willing to discuss a few changes in the terms of the protectorate,” he said slowly. “Subject to the agreement of my Empress, of course.”
He was a bold one, acting as if the Selvarats were still a force to be reckoned with. Olafur might have fallen for such deception, but Devlin would not be taken in by such trickery.
“There will be no negotiations. The protectorate is finished.”
“You will not find it so easy to be rid of us. Our troops—”
“Your troops are beaten. Arnaud’s mercenaries deserted when it became clear that their master’s promises would not be fulfilled. As for your army, the bodies of your soldiers can be found scattered across the eastern provinces. Those few who survived have retreated to their fortresses, where they are licking their wounds and hoping that winter ends before they starve.”
“You lie.” Anger turned Magaharan’s face red as the veteran diplomat lost hold of his temper.
“I have no reason to lie,” Devlin said. “Your army in Myrka was destroyed and the survivors retreated north, to a handful of fortifications on the coast of Esker. The forces in the north were forced to retreat to the port of Trelleborg. Less than a third of those who set foot in Jorsk remain alive today, and many of their number will not last the winter.”
Count Magaharan stared at Devlin as if trying to judge the truth of his words. He must have suspected that the war was not going well, for news of the uprising and Devlin’s victories had been trickling into Kingsholm for weeks. But it seemed the ambassador had not realized the full extent of the Selvarat losses.
Since the beginning, the Selvarat threat had been a bluff. They’d gambled by sending every soldier they could spare from their internecine struggles to take part in Prince Arnaud’s scheme, going so far as to hire mercenaries to supplement their own troops. It was unlikely they could find enough to launch a serious invasion against an enemy that was prepared to defend its shores.
“What is it you want from me?” Magaharan asked.
“Tomorrow you will be escorted to a river boat, to journey to the port of Bezek. There you will find a ship to take you to Selvarat, and you will bear my personal messages to the Empress Thania.”
It was late, but there was still time for one last crossing before winter came and the Bay of Storms again demonstrated how it had earned its name.
“In spring I expect two things. First, the Lady Gemma of Esker and her daughter Madrene are to receive safe passage to their home. I expect to hear of their arrival with the first ships in the spring.”
“That can be arranged.”
What would happen next would depend on how they had fared during their captivity. Stephen’s mother and sister had been held hostage by the Selvarats for over a year now, and Madrene had reportedly married one of the Selvarat nobles. If she had indeed been forced into the alliance, Lord Brynjolf might well demand retribution, and Devlin saw no reason to deny him.
“And you may send ships to evacuate your soldiers from Trelleborg, and from Sunrise Bay in Esker. We will be watching carefully. If there is any trickery, any attempt to land more troops, my soldiers will slaughter your forces. There will be no quarter given. And once we have destroyed the invaders, I will raise an army to conquer Selvarat. Tell Thania that if it is war she wants, then I will teach her the true meaning of the word.”
“Bold words from a country that only months ago was begging for our aid. You could never defeat us,” Magaharan said.
Devlin leaned forward and held out his left hand. “Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do. Prince Arnaud made that mistake. He thought me weak and helpless, bound by his chains. He thought he could control me. But the last thing he saw was his beating heart, clenched in my fist.”
For a moment Devlin remembered how it had felt to grasp the Prince’s heart, warm blood dripping down his arm as he squeezed the quivering muscle. Magaharan stared in fascination at Devlin’s hand, swallowing hard as Devlin closed his fist.
“You are a madman,” Magaharan declared.
It was not that simple. Devlin was not mad, though Prince Arnaud’s tortures had driven him to the brink. But rather Devlin was the sum of his experiences. Every step he had trod had led him to this place, and to who he was now. His family’s death at the hands of the banecats. The exiled wanderings that had led him to the post of Chosen One. His discovery of a new purpose for his life, as the champion of those who had no other to turn to.
All culminating in his betrayal at the hands of King Olafur. Had King Olafur welcomed Devlin’s return, then he would have spent these last months in Kingsholm, held prisoner to the King’s will by the power of the Geas spell. There would have been no rebellion, no liberation for those whose lands were intended for the Selvarat settlers. Instead, Olafur had unwittingly delivered Devlin into the hands of a mind-sorcerer, one of the few who had the power to break the Geas spell. Devlin had emerged from his ordeal with fresh scars, but with a soul he could finally call his own.
“I am what I have to be,” Devlin said finally. “Loyal to my friends, and the most ruthless foe that you will ever face. Go and tell your Empress that she does not wish to be my enemy. She has one chance for peace.”
Magaharan nodded slowly, as if he realized that this was no diplomatic game. Devlin was not posturing; nor was he uttering empty threats. He was merely making promises.
“I will tell her of your message. And for my part, I will urge her to accept your terms.”
“Then I wish you safe journey,” Devlin said. “You and your escort will leave at first light.”
Devlin hoped Thania would see reason and accept his offers. He had seen and done enough killing for a lifetime. But if Thania wanted war, he would not rest until he had made sure that she and her empire no longer had the power to threaten Jorsk. He had vowed to bring lasting peace to these lands, and he would keep his promise. Whatever it took.