Devlin's Justice (40 page)

“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.

Twenty-seven