Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 28

  Jagur sighed, the man’s obstinacy tiring. No wonder Whitt and Gannon gave up. He glanced at the plump justice who refrained from uttering a peep, his lips pressed between his teeth. Jagur’s gaze returned to the high ward. “You will order your forces back, or I will send guardians to round them up for you.”

  “You would jeopardize the lives of Ellegeans to save savages? The Founders granted us this land to conquer. I merely fulfill their vision. To do otherwise is to commit treason to the Book of Protocols, Commander, and the essence of the very law you revere.”

  Jagur raised his eyebrows at the mention of the Cull Tarr’s holy book, and his patience ran out. “Will you, High Ward Antoris-Tor, by order of Her Grace Lelaine-Elan, Queen of Ellegeance, cease your illegal acts against the Farlanders according to Ellegean law?”

  The high ward, steepled his thin fingers. “Not even if you hang me.”

  “Excellent suggestion.” Jagur beckoned to Nordin. “Hang him for treason.”

  Nordin cocked his head in question.

  Jagur gave him a hard look. “Captain, that’s an order.”

  “Secure the room!” Nordin shouted. The guardians burst from the center of the space outward, trapping city guards against the walls with the threat of steel. “Drop your weapons and on your knees or hang.”

  Four guardians strode toward the high ward. Antoris rose from the chair he sat like a throne, righteous defiance sparkling in his eyes. “Mark me, Commander. You betray your own race to protect animals that will turn on you. They can’t be trusted. Remember my warning when your guardians face their horde.”

  Jagur beckoned to a young woman who’d newly entered Guardian’s ranks. “Tell the men below to clear the courtyard for a hanging.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The young woman jogged off.

  Justice Narl sputtered about duty to the law, unquestionable innocence, and a legacy of coercion.

  His pipe between his teeth, Jagur afforded the man a scowl that dared him to utter another word. “I’m certain we can hitch up another noose, Justice.”

  “Commander.” Jagur pivoted toward the voice; the young guardian stood in the doorway. “Commander, we have a problem.”

  Jagur followed her out. In the corridor, the four guardians assigned to the Ardal and Olivan grimaced. “Commander, they influenced us.”

  One of the archers scratched his head. “It was subtle, Commander. We didn’t even notice it. The convinced us they were honorable and wouldn’t interfere. They’re gone.”

  Jagur sighed. “Another reminder why influencers nettle my good temper. They weren’t under arrest. Let’s just hope that’s the end of them.”

  Chapter Forty

  Catling occupied her customary spot behind Lelaine’s chair. She’d wedged her feet into new boots that pinched her toes and added two inches of height, the latest in Ellegean fashion. She would have felt exquisitely average in stature except that all the women of the upper tiers wore them, leaving her forever diminutive in comparison. Lelaine fancied them, but then she didn’t spend most of her day on her toes.

  She shifted, and Colton eyed her with a hint of amusement, well aware of her discomfort. As of that evening, she intended to sacrifice elegance for comfort and resign herself to being the sprite she’d always been.

  The council’s morning conference extended into the afternoon after a modest midday repast. Catling arched her back, swaying from side to side. Colton cleared his throat, a contrived noise meant for her ears alone. She rolled her eyes and stopped, holding a yawn inside her mouth.

  “I have news for the council and our guests,” Lelaine said at the conclusion of a lengthy discussion regarding river congestion and fishing limits on the Slipsilver. “This council, the high wards of our tiers, my closest advisors, and few friends have informed me for the past eight years that I am in need of a bond and a brood of at least one female heir. I’ve reached twenty-five winters, and according to some, I’m on the verge of shriveling into an old fish and losing my teeth.”

  Catling gazed over Lelaine’s shoulder at the expectant faces of the councilors, Ambassador Linc, and numerous guildsmen and traders who waited to air their grievances and proposals. Most of them chuckled politely.

  “I have chosen,” the queen said, the humor in her voice replaced by the gravity of her statement. “I shall bond with my longtime companion and honest ally, Gannon of Mur-Vallis.”

  Without exception, the reaction around the council table was mute acceptance of an ill-advised but inevitable conclusion. The balance of her audience sucked the air from the hall and responded in stupefied silence, blinking as if her decision were stuck in their eyes as well as their ears.

  Catling almost laughed, and her smile seemed to pop Councilor Oaron-Elan from his thoughts. He hefted his bulk out of his chair, and with hands clasped above his belly, he grinned. “May I be the first to congratulate you, Your Grace, on a wise choice that further reflects your commitment to bring prosperity and opportunity to all people of Ellegeance.”

  “Long overdue,” Edark-Rho rose and bowed, followed by well-wishes from Laris-Kar. A tidal wave of stuttering approval emanated from the rest of the guests. Catling didn’t require her new sight to envision the censure and frustration. Falco Linc for once had lost his smile. On the chair’s other side, Colton exhaled a long quiet breath, an undisguised wistfulness in his eyes. She pretended to rub her unmarked eye. The halo around him didn’t surprise her—love, regret, happiness and disappointment. He caught her gaze, and she lowered her hand.

  “I thank you for your vigorous and spirited approval,” Lelaine said. “All but my councilors and Ambassador Linc are excused.”

  Her dismissal didn’t include scribes and clerks, servants and Queen’s Guardsmen, a score of invisible participants in royal affairs. As the hall emptied, Catling leaned forward, lips near Lelaine’s ear. “I’m delighted for both of you.”

  The queen glanced at her. “I hope we don’t live to regret it.” The doors closed with a thump that echoed through the hall, and she turned back to her councilors. “Much as I expected.”

  Upright in his seat, Oaron lent her a fatherly smile. “They will adjust with time, Your Grace. Gannon is an excellent choice.”

  “Admirable, however controversial,” Edark admitted. The gaunt man once intimidated Catling with his skeletal demeanor and dour tone, but she’d become accustomed to him as his loyalty to Lelaine and prudent advice never waned. “I suggest we send initial birds to the high wards with your announcement and follow up by river with more detailed explanations for your choice and hope for Ellegeance.”

  “A shame we can’t sum it up to love, isn’t it?” Lelaine sighed.

  “Acceptable here,” Oaron waved an inclusive hand, “but it’s all politics beyond our ears.”

  “I wish you the greatest joy,” Laris said, “and agree that stepping ahead of rumors is wise.”

  “Then do so.” Lelaine beckoned to a servant and rested a fingertip on her goblet, further instructions unnecessary. She removed a letter from her pocket, the missive small and daintily rolled, bound with a violet ribbon. She leaned toward the ambassador. “I realize this decision is far from the alliance the Shiplord desired. My choice was long in coming and bears no disrespect to his generous offer. I bid you to forward my warmest regards, personal thoughts, and deepest regrets.” She handed him the letter.

  The ambassador accepted it after a sliver of hesitation. He bowed his head, gracious acquiescence in his smile. “If you will allow, Your Grace, I shall send your kind words before less gentle rumors reach his ears.”

  “As you will,” Lelaine said.

  The ambassador retreated, and a guardsman entered with the same swing of the door after first stepping aside. “Your Grace.” The guard bowed. “You have visitors from the Far Wolds who insist upon an audience. One Tiler of Mur-Vallis and one Cale of the Warriors’ Guild of Guardian.”

  Catling’s gaze darted to the doorway with a sharp inhale. Any mention of the south pared a
way all concerns but for Rose and Whitt, and the brewing conflict merely honed an already sharp edge. Gannon had secured Whitt a pardon, but she didn’t know what that meant. Was he in greater danger or less? And what of Rose? Where was Rose?

  Tiler sauntered into the hall like the Mur-Vallis enforcer he’d always been. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since the Tiers’ Rebellion, and he hadn’t changed. He was a man constructed of half brawn and half bulk, his hair tufted and attire more Farlander than Ellegean. Cale wore her guardian greens and armor, cropped curls damp with sweat, and Catling didn’t doubt that the woman melted in the northern heat.

  Cale observed her audience with the sternness of a warrior on a mission. She marched forward and bowed in half, Tiler mirroring her but with far less grace. “Our respects, Lelaine-Elan. A message from Commander Jagur.” She extended a letter to Oaron who presented it to the queen. Catling resisted the urge to read over Lelaine’s shoulder and kept her eyes on Tiler, desiring some clue, some word that her loves were safe and well.

  Lelaine huffed and returned the letter to Oaron, who read it aloud:

  “Your Grace, Lelaine-Elan, Queen of Ellegeance:

  I send my deepest respects and regret for the unfortunate news enclosed.

  Guardian received word from your emissary to the Far Wolds, Gannon of Mur-Vallis. The situation in the territory has further deteriorated. Violence against the Farlanders has escalated from random beatings to hangings and brutal beheadings.”

  Oaron paused and inhaled, sharing his alarm with the other councilors.

  “Ellegean vigilantes set fire to Tor’s Farlander district, which spread to the city proper. The Whiprill’s dam was breached to prevent further destruction from the blaze, but the ensuing flood brought its own, however lesser, damage to crops and structures.

  Due to the dire nature of the violence against the Farlanders and the repercussions of such actions on the safety of Ellegean territories and citizens, I judged that an immediate response was called for. Your wise and gracious instructions to protect the Farlanders from Ellegean aggression coupled with Guardian’s oath to protect and preserve the realm compelled Guardian to march for Tor.

  Our mission is to restore order to the territory and safeguard your vision of Ellegean peace and cooperation.

  Commander Jagur

  “Disturbing news.” Edark steepled his fingers.

  “He marched.” Lelaine beckoned a servant and frowned at Tiler and Cale while the man filled her goblet. “Why didn’t Jagur send a bird?”

  Cale straightened. “He believed your instructions were clear and sent us to answer your questions.”

  “Incorrect.” Lelaine shot her a glance and sipped the wine. “He wished to avoid my advice and instructions.”

  “Your Grace.” Cale set her jaw. “Tiler and I were in Tor. I saw the headless bodies myself while they still bled and twitched. One was a woman. It was a random attack without cause.”

  “I don’t doubt the horror,” Lelaine snapped. “I merely impress upon you that I would have appreciated the courtesy of a bird.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Cale acknowledged the admonition with a dip of her chin.

  “I’ve been manipulated into this situation by Gannon among others, and I don’t appreciate the chicanery even if it’s well-intended.” Lelaine shook her ringlets and sighed. “I suppose there is little I can do now since the Commander is there, isn’t he?”

  “He would have arrived a week ago,” Cale replied.

  Oaron placed the letter on the table. “I trust Jagur will have better luck negotiating with High Ward Antoris than Gannon.”

  Crossing his arms, Tiler smirked. “The high ward’s a man looking to have his… um… self… uh… some explaining to do.”

  Edark peered at Tiler beneath half-lidded eyes and turned to the queen. “The tiers’ high wards will complain of the overreach. They loathe any interference in the operation of their provinces.”

  “The Far Wolds isn’t a province,” Lelaine muttered, “and the Farlanders render the situation unique. I suggest we preempt negative reactions where we have an opportunity. I’d like Vianne and Dalcoran summoned to Elan-Sia. We’ll use them to quell any peripheral dissatisfaction.” She rubbed her neck. “Draft an invitation.”

  Oaron nodded and inked a hasty reminder.

  “Now that Linc is out of the room.” Edark leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I commend your decision to reject the Shiplord’s offer of a contractual bond. However, I do not believe he will step aside easily. He is a man who rarely hears the word ‘no.’ ”

  “The Cull Tarr add ships beyond the breakwater,” Laris-Kar warned. “Whatever the week’s excuse, they continue to amass a force of preachers in our cities, and the rivers are crowded with their faces and words of faith.”

  “One problem at a time,” Lelaine said and downed her wine.

  Catling couldn’t hold back any longer. She ached to ask about Rose but didn’t dare reveal the secret that she still lived. “Any word of Whitt?”

  Tiler mugged a grin. “The turdwit… oh, I mean the… fellow was alive last time I saw him.”

  “Is he well? Is he some place safe? Are there good and kind people around him?” She didn’t know how else to ask, and Lelaine raised an eyebrow at the interruption.

  “He lives with the Farlanders,” Cale replied. “They seem nice enough, safe. But that was two weeks ago, a year in a warrior’s life. Safety and danger change overnight in war, and Founders’ Hell might have broken loose since then.”

  ***

  Catling and Colton accompanied Lelaine to her quarters for a mid-afternoon rest. The stressful news and too much wine took a toll on the queen’s endurance. Colton inspected the room, declared it free of intruders, and retreated to the corridor to guard the door. Catling oversaw Lelaine’s servants until they tucked the queen beneath her coverlet, blond curls like a golden halo on her pillow.

  With no requirement to linger, she slipped from the room and sagged against the corridor wall with a sigh for Colton. “Do you mind spending your days guarding her? You never complain.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sworn to protect her, and it’s an honor, Catling. She’s a far better ruler than her father ever was.”

  “Does her decision to bond…” She didn’t know how to ask, and his heart truly wasn’t hers to know. “My regrets; I’m prying. It’s just that we sacrifice our dreams to this service. This duty is so lonesome.”

  He canted his head toward her. “It’s not my place to offer an opinion about her bond. I’m her guardsman.”

  “And Gannon is a warrens rat,” she countered. “I’m delighted for both of them. Yet, I spend hours listening to council drabble and can’t help noticing your… affection for her. It’s transparent to me.”

  “A man’s desires to possess what he can’t have.” He smirked, mocking himself. “I’m pleased for her, Catling, truly happy. Gannon proved himself when he rescued her from the Cull Tarr. He’s proved himself since and now will rescue her from the Cull Tarr once again.”

  “We are both sworn to her for all our days at the loss of other choices.”

  “Is it my oath troubling you or your own?”

  She chuckled at his observation. “Perhaps both. Haven’t you ever wished for a different life?”

  “At times. Bear in mind, Catling, I chose this life. I was younger and unreasonably naive, but I don’t regret the decision. I’m content with my duty. Affection for the queen is not a disadvantage.”

  She gazed up at him, her forehead developing permanent creases. “I’ve never had choices, only duty.”

  “That’s different, I’ll admit.” He leaned on the wall. “Don’t give up on Whitt, Catling. You’re still young.”

  “How did Whitt enter this conversation?”

  He eyed her. “Your feelings are transparent.”

  She tipped her head back for a laugh. “I won’t. And you must keep your eyes open among Lelaine’s ladies.”

  He winked at
her. “That I will.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The east fork of Falcyn’s river cascaded down from the Fangwold in a silver froth. The bright water leaked and flowed from fresh snow layered over old, the highest peaks cowled in white throughout the year. Whitt squatted to scoop a handful of water. The cold luminescence swept around the Farlanders who waded across, more than half of them women, children, and elderly. They carried woven packs of belongings, the bones of their ancestors, and foraged food, all else left behind as the city’s guardsmen drove them out.

  Tavor stood beside him, surveying the eldergreen forest bordering the other bank. “We’ve got a hundred guards on our tails, aiming to skewer us. We aren’t traveling much farther without a fight.”

  “Any chance they don’t want a full battle with guardians?” Whitt dried his hands on his jerkin. “They may be content to drive us.”

  “The twelve of us aren’t all that intimidating,” Tavor pointed out.

  “We have eight hundred more behind us.”

  “Two days behind us.”

  “At times, your optimism overwhelms me.” Whitt eyed the sergeant and blew out a breath. “So let’s carve out a wedge of time and get help. We’ll send two horsemen to Jagur. Any Farlanders who carry a bow or can swing a club will stay with me. We’ll hold up the guards at the river while you lead the rest into the hills and find a place you can defend.”

  He figured Tavor would grouse about his role, but Whitt had earned the Farlanders’ trust, and the guardians needed their sergeant.

  “Always maneuvering for the easy detail,” Tavor muttered and glanced up at the treed foothills. Most of the Farlanders had crossed and waited in the streamside brush and light woods. He canted his shiny pate toward a pair of redheaded brothers. “I’ll send those two for Jagur. Pick your defenders, leave us your horses, and we’ll divvy up the bows.”

  Moments after he and Tavor waded across the frigid river, Whitt turned his horse over to one of the brothers, and the two young men headed out. Whitt looked back across the glittering water, figuring they trekked a few hours ahead of Falcyn’s guards. Progress had been slow, hampered by young and old feet, foraging, and frequent rests. He faced the haggard refugees. “Any Farlanders ready for a fight…”