Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 14

Behind the queen, Catling covered an eye.

  Gannon drummed his fingertips on the table, glaring at the justice. “In half the tier cities, the high wards signed agreements with the warrens, treaties if you will. The commander is right. If you disregard your own laws, break your agreements, all future efforts are suspect.”

  “My oath, Your Majesty,” Jagur reminded her, “is to Ellegeance.”

  “Do I hear threats?” Lelaine spat fire. “All of you. Your words border on intimidation and beg a night in chains.”

  “May I?” The Cull Tarr ambassador addressed the queen, his demeanor unruffled. “Victory is rarely a one-time event that wraps up into a tidy package. It often requires the perspective of years to settle into a balanced peace. Thus, adjustments to initial treaties are expected. Conquest naturally entails the acquisition of new territory, new opportunities, and sources of wealth. No one ever suggested it was comfortable for the conquered; yet, they adjust. The Founders approve of the Ellegean conquest over the barbarians, or you wouldn't have been successful.”

  The justice nodded his approval. “We appeal for an adjustment to the treaty and the power to enforce it. This time, we will ensure it is comprehensive and specific, thereby avoiding future conflicts.”

  Lelaine beckoned a servant to refill her goblet. “As the queen of Ellegeance, I’m inclined to at least consider the request.”

  Jagur grunted and exchanged a glance with Gannon, the man’s curls hiding his eyes, his fist resting on the table. The queen ignored them both.

  “I myself was a victim of violence,” Ardal said.

  “A Farlander assaulted an influencer?” The queen blinked in disbelief. “The high ward’s influencer, no less?”

  The man stiffened. “A Guardian warrior entered Tor’s prison, slew three guards, held me at knife point, and freed a Farlander woman arrested for attempting to sabotage the dam west of the city.”

  “Are you certain of that account?” Jagur raised an eyebrow.

  The influencer’s lip rose, the disdain palpable. He nodded to the queen. “At the very least, Your Grace, we beseech you to address Guardian’s mission in the south before Ellegeans line up on both sides of the coming battle.”

  “My goal is to avoid a battle altogether, Ardal-Mur.” Lelaine glanced between them. “Commander, do we need to address Guardian’s conduct in the Far Wolds?”

  Jagur expected it, but he didn’t enjoy it. No way in Founders’ Hell would he let the pompous asses from Tor tell Guardian how to do its job. And the pipsqueak coward of a queen had another thing coming if she thought he would roll over, break honor, and abandon oaths and treaties without good reason. He looked up at the young woman standing silently behind the queen’s chair, hoping she was up for the challenge. She studied him, her head at a tilt.

  His gaze returned to the queen. “I heard a different version of those events. If you’ll allow me, I’ll order Whitt here for a taste of the truth.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Catling’s heart leapt at the mention of Whitt’s name. When he’d failed to greet her upon her appearance at the fortress, she’d surrendered any hope of seeing him. If he’d returned from the Wolds, why wasn’t he present? When had he arrived, and why and where did he hide? The commander sent two guardians to retrieve him.

  Thus far, the council tussled with contentious opinions. If she based Jagur’s assessment on his permanent scowl, he cared no more for the discussion than she. Her history of affection for the Farlanders was no secret. A childhood at the stead had afforded her close bonds with Bromel and his family. Season’s separated those brief encounters, but the memories were magical, warm, and merry, a child’s dream after a precarious start with Keela in the warrens.

  During the debate’s most heated exchange, she’d covered her eye for a peek at the genuine emotions circulating the table. Anger tinged every aura, combined with fear and anxiety, twinges of desire and suspicion, all fluid and reacting to every word, every glance. Gannon’s heart showed the greatest complexity in his tangle of conflicted feelings: love and fear, acceptance and defiance. Only the Cull Tarr ambassador displayed overarching flames of comfort and delight.

  Sanson, Guardian’s influencer, had observed the proceedings with interest but refrained from using his power. Ardal-Mur had applied his sway from the start, delicately and then with greater intensity as his ability to move emotions faltered. He had swept the room without restraint, attempting to ply his skills on the queen and on her. Another oathbreaker. Was anyone true to their vows? She might have laughed if she wasn’t shielding and, therefore, exposed to the man’s sway.

  Whitt entered between two guardians and strode forward, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth just for her. He looked disheveled, his clothing rumpled, his face mottled by old bruising. His hands remained behind his back, and when he bowed to the queen, Catling saw the rope binding his wrists. She lurched upright. Colton’s hand snapped to her arm, anticipating her urge to bolt. She glanced at the guard’s face, reading his warning to wait.

  Lelaine sighed. “You have served the realm with honor, Whitt. Therefore, Ardal-Mur’s version of your actions distresses me. I would appreciate your account.”

  While Whitt spoke at length about his time in the south, the altercations, and his attempt to keep the peace, Catling observed the Tor influencer struggling to manipulate the proceedings. He pushed fear and outrage into the air when Whitt mentioned the Farlanders’ needs and the treaty’s authority. When the account shifted to the high ward’s demands, he plied the air with frustration and sympathy. Catling blocked his power, shielding everyone in the room but herself. The false emotions left her irritated with him while raising empathy for the Farlanders, a result contrary to his objective. She yielded to the urge to retaliate, instilling in him a growing anxiety and tweaking his justice with enough discomfort to provoke a mild itch and profuse sweat.

  Lelaine tapped a finger to her cheek. “You swear you didn’t kill the guards in the prison; what of the man on the street?”

  “I did not kill the men at the prison,” Whitt assured her. “The last one, I cannot say. It was never my intention.”

  “You believe Ardal-Mur killed them?”

  Whitt turned a hard gaze on the influencer. “I do. To assign blame.”

  Ardal’s chin snapped up. “I would nev—”

  “Yes, of course.” Lelaine raised a palm. “Is there anything else, Whitt, you wish to add?”

  He nodded. “I took an oath to Ellegeance, and I believe in the aspirations you envision for the realm, Your Grace. Peace, justice, cooperation for the good of all your citizens. I couldn’t stand by and see those principles defiled.”

  “All well and good.” The justice wiped his brow on a handcloth. “However, the natives are not Ellegeans.”

  “Nor are the Cull Tarr,” Lelaine pointed out. “Yet it serves us to cooperate, maintain agreements, and behave civilly.”

  “Your Grace.” Whitt shifted his weight and worked some movement into his shoulders. “We require honest solutions that work for all. Force is no more effective than influence. They both quash dissent and discourage conflict, but when the pressure eases, nothing has changed. The Far Wolds can prosper for all if we live by the existing terms; otherwise, we are attempting to force fire to behave like water. We will be at odds forever.”

  “The existing terms are untenable,” Narl said, his fingers threaded and resting on the table. “We will deplete our wood supplies within three years. We will stagnate without land for expansion, to grow food for our citizens, water for irrigation. Such a decision would leave us no choice but to send our citizens over the Fangwold back to the tier cities.”

  “Scare tactics,” Jagur muttered. “The treaty is manageable.”

  “You must consider the impact on the tier cities,” Ambassador Linc said, ignoring the commander. “The peace in your tiers is tentative and needs time to mature.”

  Gannon pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “These are
false choices! On the one hand, we live by the treaty and flood the tier cities with dislocated Ellegeans. On the other hand, we break the treaty and wage war on the natives who, frankly, were here first. What about renegotiating what we have? A middle ground? Like we did in the tiers?”

  “The Farlanders won’t agree?” Ardal stated.

  “Is that so?” Gannon glared at the man. “Or is it the high ward who refuses to budge?”

  “Silence.” Lelaine raised a hand, and Gannon sank to his seat. She studied him with an appreciative glint in her eye.

  Catling maintained her block on Tor’s influencer even though he’d withdrawn any further attempts at control.

  “Your Grace,” Whitt said. “I believe the Farlanders will negotiate. They gave me until Harvest to return with something, anything to show we are honorable.”

  “Or else,” Ardal added under his breath though loud enough for all to hear.

  “I have come to a decision.” Lelaine gestured to her scribe. “I shall not disregard our treaty and risk war in the south. At the same time, I shall not have the prosperity of Ellegeance stifled, refugees streaming over the pass and risking further disruptions in our tiers. I order a renegotiation of the treaty with the Farlanders. Gannon has proven immensely skilled in this respect and will lead the effort.”

  “What?” Gannon frowned at her.

  She smiled in return. “I trust no one more than you to accomplish this goal. You will hold the crown’s full authority.” She faced the other attendees. “Until then, you will all do your best to live civilly.”

  “And if the Farlanders continue their aggression?” Ardal asked.

  Whitt exchanged a weary glance with Tavor. Lelaine faced the commander in reply. “Commander, as long as the Farlanders are the aggressors, Guardian will defend the Ellegean settlements and territory."

  “And if the settlers become the aggressors?” Whitt asked.

  The queen regarded him. “Then, of course, we shall defend them against violence. We are a peaceful realm."

  ***

  “Where are you taking him?” Catling darted from behind Lelaine’s chair as the guardians began escorting Whitt from the hall. Two men stepped forward to intercept her as she ran across the stone floor.

  “Don’t touch me,” Catling warned.

  “Let her go,” Jagur yelled.

  She approached Whitt at a quieter pace. “Where are they taking you?”

  A wistful smile played across his face. “I disobeyed orders and broke the law.”

  “But that was settled.” She pressed a palm to his cheek. “Whitt, you’re hurt. May I?”

  He nodded, and she healed him with her influence, a simple task that removed the sallow remnants of his bruising and eased the lingering pain in his ankle. She brushed him with a touch of love, a sheer wisp of the genuine emotion welling in her eyes.

  “Settled in part,” he said. “I don’t believe I killed, but men died. I helped a woman escape from prison. I broke my warrior’s vow.”

  “Then it’s a ridiculous vow,” she snapped, wheeling on those who lingered at the table. “It’s senseless and unjust. There is more than one oathbreaker in this room. And there is certainly more than one lawbreaker. In fact, this is the Lawbreakers’ Guild, reeking of liars’ justice. You might as well lock us all away.”

  “Catling,” Whitt pleaded. She faced him, and he leaned forward, planting a kiss on her cheek. Then he turned, and his escorts led him away.

  Her feet stayed planted in the middle of the hall. To return to the table seemed a betrayal of Whitt, acquiescence to inane rules of law that had nothing in common with justice. Lelaine stared at her with a face carved of stone though outrage pooled in her eyes and thinned her lips.

  Catling had broken all oaths but one, her vow never to influence Lelaine. That too cracked and shattered in a world where nothing was as noble or virtuous as it seemed. A world of power and influence, manipulation and political expediency. She eased a wisp of her power through the air. A subtle touch of love and comfort brushed the queen, a reminder of their affection, a lonely longing for friendship and loyalty.

  “Whitt has served the realm honorably in the past,” Lelaine said carefully. “However, I cannot disregard the seriousness of his crimes.”

  Jagur massaged his jaw, and Gannon studied his wine goblet, lost in his own fury. Catling’s gaze shifted to the commander, panic welling in her chest. “What will happen to him?”

  “A trial,” Jagur said. “Our code stands, Catling. We can’t have guardians loping around the realm doing what they damned well please, even if their intentions are admirable. Whitt knew that before he made his choice.”

  “In Tor, we would hang him,” Justice Narl said.

  Catling lashed out with a shock of pain that catapulted the justice out of his seat. His chair hurled backward, and he vomited on the table. Ardal-Mur jolted out of the way, and the others recoiled.

  “Catling!” Lelaine’s voice cut, sharp as obsidian.

  “Hang Ardal, the oathbreaker and lawbreaker!” Catling shouted. “Hang Narl, hang High Ward Antoris. Or don’t we hang high wards? Algar murdered hundreds, and you knew it, Your Grace. You knew it, Commander, and neither of you cared.”

  “Catling.” Gannon rose to his feet. “That’s enough.”

  She couldn’t stop, her rage blazing through any thread of restraint. “You must also hang Gannon. Hang every influencer who killed an innocent as part of our mercy trial. Hang Kadan and Sanson. Hang me because I murdered Piergren for murdering an innocent girl. You might as well line the tiers with gallows. I have lost my mother, my family, and my child, Lelaine.” Catling’s hands curled into fists. “I will not lose the last person I love.”

  “Remove her!” Lelaine leapt to her feet.

  Gannon bolted around the table before the guards fulfilled the order. He grabbed her arm, dragged her across the hall, and marched her into the afternoon sunshine. “Have you gone completely senseless?” he hissed, shaking her.

  She wrenched her arm from his grip, abruptly aware that Ardal pumped her with rage. Yet, she hardly cared, the emotion only slightly more reckless than her own. Tamping down a desire to scream, she spun toward a guardian stationed at the doorway, smiled and freed a ripple of love and lust. “Where are the cells for prisoners? Where did the two guards take Whitt?”

  The guard stared at her eye and swallowed.

  She sighed. “He’s my brother. I’ve permission to visit him.”

  “Oh,” the man chuckled and pointed. “Beyond the mess.”

  “My thanks.” She rewarded him with a touch of sensory pleasure and set off down the wide dirt path to the dining hall.

  Gannon caught up to her in two heartbeats. “Catling, what are you doing?”

  “Breaking the law.”

  “You can’t do that.” He spun in front of her, halting her.

  “I don’t see why not.” She looked up at him. “I’m a trained influencer. It’s simple.”

  “That’s not the point.” He raked his hand through his curls.

  “Lelaine could pardon him. Nothing about this is straightforward or fair. Ardal is a murderer, and those Ellegeans broke the law. Why aren’t they in a cell? Why does the law apply to some and not to others? Why do wealth and power grant us a pass? We are all lawbreakers, Gannon.” She laughed, the injustice making her insane. “Lelaine does what’s expedient, not what's right.”

  “She’s doing the best she can.”

  “No, Gannon, she’s not. She’s protecting her power; she’s afraid to ruffle feathers. She’s appeasing dangerous men, Antoris and the Shiplord, for Founders’ sake. She appears commanding and decisive, but in the end, her weakness will ruin her. She loves you, and if she were doing her best, she’d bond with you. So why does she refuse?”

  Her words hit the mark, and he sighed. “I won’t give up on her.”

  “She’s sending you to the Wolds.” Catling stepped around him and continued down toward the hall.

&
nbsp; “To kick High Ward Antoris is the cushion and draft a treaty.” He hurried after her. “Then I’ll be back. She’s right. I’m the best choice for shoving a torch up a high ward’s hole.”

  “You don’t have to help me, Gannon. I’ll meet you in our quarters when I’m done.”

  “Lelaine will demand your head.”

  “I’ll influence her,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Bad idea.”

  “I no longer care. I’m freeing Whitt.”

  “Not without a horse.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Catling admired the tall terran horses in the paddock beside the stables while Gannon made arrangements to have their mounts saddled and readied for an evening ride beyond the south gate. He talked nonsense with the stable hands, getting directions for a spot with a panoramic view of the fortress and the wild lands descending from the notch.

  He canted his head toward Catling and whispered to the stableman. “We require a degree of discretion; I’m sure you understand.” The man smiled at Catling. She looked down shyly while tickling him with a feather of love and a dusting of fear and excitement, a blend steeped with romantic intrigue.

  “I never saw you,” the man said.

  “Any advice regarding the south gate?

  The stableman shook his head. “You’re with the queen’s party; no one will stop you. Going out is easier than coming in. When you ride out, tell them where you’re headed and return before nightfall.”

  “My thanks.” Gannon offered the man a respectful nod and hooked Catling’s arm. “Cloaks, a bit of food, a blanket. Then we’re off.”

  Catling giggled and waved to the stablemen, dosing him with a trace of satisfaction that elicited a chuckle. When out of earshot, she glanced up at Gannon. “You have a talent for escapes.”

  “Years of thieving the Mur-Vallis tiers. Preparation, subterfuge, and a means of flight.”

  “What now?”

  “We gather our gear. Then I turn this adventure over to you.”

  While Gannon returned to their quarters for their cloaks and a blanket, Catling entered the dining hall and wandered into the massive kitchen that fed Guardian’s warriors. Stone ovens rose two levels high, and open hearths held copper pots on iron hooks. Master cooks lorded over their dominions like high wards, and lesser cooks and servants hurried between tasks. The scent of fresh bread wafted with the heat.