They passed the next few minutes telling her about hunting in the woods outside the city and going to the theater, until another footman announced the king.
Being used to impressive-looking kings like Arryk and Lennart, Anton was surprised at how ordinary Gauvain looked. Still, he seemed like a nice fellow and greeted the boys warmly. Then he kissed the queen on the cheek and said, “I’m starving darling, do you suppose we could eat? We can talk during.”
A footman led them into yet another fabulous room, this one done all in green, and seated them around a small round table. Courtiers of all shapes and sizes hovered over them until the king said loudly, “Would all of you kindly excuse us for a moment?” And everyone backed up against the walls.
“Now,” the king said, as a footman discreetly poured the wine and another servant brought in plates of soup. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Braeden
Unfortunately for Braeden and his party, a blizzard moved in, forcing them to stay in the village. Braeden was liberal with his silver from the start, and soon the burgomaster had assigned all of the troops to various homes.
Since Braeden had threatened his soldiers with death and worse if they misbehaved, he didn’t expect any problems. The last thing he needed right now was villagers feeling even more sympathetic to the peasants.
Braeden and Destler were lodged with the burgomaster, who had the largest house. But since the man lived with his wife, her parents and five small children, the place was crowded before anyone else moved in.
Braeden found it difficult to spend much time with the little ones, especially since two of them were the exact ages his own would have been by now, so he did his best to stay out of the way. He visited Kazmir in the stable every day, struggling through increasing drifts of snow. Even during daylight, it was hard to see where he was going, though he learned to recognize the outlines of the buildings well enough.
The snow stopped falling at last, but then the wind picked up, blowing it into great drifts that covered the windows and piled up under the eaves. Still, the villagers would not be put off from the Feast of Ercos, planned for the turning of the year.
On the day, everyone struggled through the snow to the village hall, where great piles of food were prepared, and musicians played merry tunes. Once a certain amount of ale had been consumed, there was dancing, and Braeden even felt up to taking the burgomaster’s wife for a turn.
He hadn’t become acquainted with many villagers before the storm hit, but it seemed to him there were an uncommonly large number of young people present. Many of them looked rough, as though they’d been out in the elements. He didn’t think they were soldiers, though they had that look to them.
Braeden slowed down with the drinking and kept a close eye on the lot of them. They didn’t seem inclined to cause trouble, most of them looking at him with wide, sometimes frightened eyes.
When the party had settled down a little, Braeden finished his mug and headed for the table where most of the young folk had congregated. He sat down on the bench without being invited, though they quickly made room for him.
“Is there anyone here who doesn’t know who I am?” he asked, looking up and down the length of the table.
“We know who you are,” a young man near the head of the table said. Of all of them, Braeden had noticed he looked the least intimidated. He wondered if he might be a leader of sorts.
“Good,” Braeden said. “And you are?”
“You can call me Gerd.” He offered no last name. Like the others, he had a round, open face, though his eyes were more intelligent than most.
“All right, Gerd,” Braeden said. “Do you know why I’m here?”
“To put down the peasant uprising?” Gerd stared at Braeden.
“Not really,” Braeden said, then grinned as a collective gasp was stifled at one glance from Gerd. “I came out to learn more about what was going on and why. I won’t lie; I don’t like this revolt, and I’ll put it down if I have to. But what’s more important right now is finding Princess Gwynneth and her children. If I can get cooperation from those involved in the uprising—as you call it—I’ll be a lot more reasonable than I’d planned.”
“What makes you think any of us know where Princess Gwynneth is?” Gerd’s bright blue eyes were bold.
“I don’t.” Braeden shrugged. “But if you know anyone who does, you might tell them...” He trailed off with a meaningful glance, which Gerd didn’t miss.
“What are you willing to offer for the princess’s release?”
“Silver, to start with.” Braeden put two heavy coins on the table with a clank. “I’ll pay the lot of you for good information. And if the princess’s captors turn her over I’ll be willing to talk about their grievances and how I might help.”
“So you want to talk?” Gerd seemed skeptical.
“I do. I can’t make any promises, especially regarding those who’ve already killed, or destroyed property. But those who are just followers are likely to get merciful treatment.”
“I see.” Gerd looked grave.
“Once the weather clears up, I’ll search for the princess again,” Braeden said. “When I find her, if she hasn’t been brought to me voluntarily, it’ll go badly for those who hold her. Just ask the guards of the Arnfels dungeon,” he added darkly. Though he usually refused to exploit his reputation, it might not hurt in this case.
Gerd chuckled. “Point taken. If you and your escort don’t mind staying in the village a few more days, I’ll see if I can find someone for you to talk to.”
“I’d be very grateful.” Braeden put another piece of silver on the table before leaving.
Anton
“I’ll start with the good news,” King Gauvain said. “I’m just about certain that both Princess Maryna and Natalya Maxima are alive.”
Everyone around him breathed out in relief, and the queen said reproachfully, “I wish you’d told me darling. I’ve been so worried.”
“I know.” The king looked sorry, and patted the queen’s hand. “But I didn’t want to tell you until I’d figured out what to do. But this is the information I have, and perhaps you three can do something with it.”
“We’ll do something, and we’re glad you have news,” Trystan said.
Anton wished they would all just hurry up and get to the point.
“I received a letter from Natalya about three months ago,” the king said. “It came from the port of Sarcy, where she stopped on her way from Norovaea. I’ll tell you later what she was doing there, but it’s not important now. She was taking Maryna to Olvisya. It seems she had highly incriminating evidence against Teodora and wanted to present it in person.”
“How odd,” Trystan said, and Anton agreed.
The king shrugged. “Natalya has a lot of interesting ideas. However, I haven’t heard from her since, and then I got a disturbing letter from King Arryk. He’d traced the ship Natalya and Maryna took from Arenberg all the way to a Maladene port. It had been taken by pirates—”
He had to pause as the queen gasped, “Oh, Holy Vica save us!”
He patted her hand again and went on. “It had been taken by pirates, then sailed into a Maladene port, where they ransomed it off to the nearest Norovaean agent. This transaction took time, and it was at least a month before King Arryk learned what had happened. What’s odd is that neither Maryna nor Natalya were on board by then.”
“So the pirates must have sold them before they sailed into port,” Trystan said.
“Who would they sell them to?” Anton asked with mounting dread.
The king looked grim. “At worst, to slavers, though that didn’t happen. Natalya would have made it clear that I would pay a great deal for their freedom. So it makes sense that the pirates sold them to the Maladene authorities, who would have contacted me.”
“Even though you’re at war?” Trystan asked.
“Especially because we’re at war. We’ve already captured a few high-ranking Malade
ne officers, and they could easily have been included in a deal. But I received no message from Maladena, at least nothing official.”
“So can we assume they’re still there?” Anton asked.
“I don’t believe they are.” The king smiled a little sadly. “Natalya had cultivated an excellent intelligence network in Maladena and some of her agents are still active. I received word from one of them recently that there were rumors of important prisoners in the big fortress at Toralla, and that some kind of deal concerning them was afoot.”
“Who else would Maladena make a deal with?” Trystan asked.
“Teodora, I imagine,” the king said, while everyone around him gasped.
“How terrible,” the queen said. “I shall write to my mother at once and insist she turn them over to us.”
“Not yet, darling.”
Anton couldn’t help but notice the soft, soothing tone the king took with the queen. It was rather sweet.
The king continued. “My sources says they were removed from Toralla, though that was only a few weeks ago. So if they’re going to Olvisya, they’re still en route.”
“That’s where we’ll go.” Trystan took on a grim expression. “How annoying, since we were just in Tirilis.”
“I won’t ask you to go,” the king said. “It’s too dangerous. I’ve put my ambassador in Atlona on notice and he’ll take over once he knows they’ve arrived.”
“What does Teodora want with them? I’d heard she and Natalya were friends,” Trystan said.
“I imagine she really wants Maryna. She can stop Lennart in his tracks if she has the new ruler of Terragand in her clutches, after she murdered Kendryk.” A shadow passed over the king’s eyes, and Anton remembered he and Kendryk had been childhood friends.
“We won’t let that happen,” Trystan said. “If we know when they left Toralla, we can figure out about where they are now and intercept them before they reach Atlona.”
“You truly want to try it?” the king asked.
Trystan looked at Karil, then Anton, and all three of them said, “Yes,” at the same time.
“All right.” The king sighed. “I’ll give you all the help I can. It’s possible they’ll make part of the journey by sea, but they’ll likely cross the western side of Cesiano into Olvisya overland. We’ll look at a map later, but I’m guessing the most direct route will take you through Tirovor, which will be difficult to pass in the winter. But I’ll make sure you have money to hire guides to take you through the mountains, and I’ll provide you with as large an escort as you think you need.”
“We’ll want to keep that small,” Trystan said. “We’re better off not having to supply so many men and horses through the winter.”
“Quite right,” the king said. “Well, you’ll receive all the money and supplies you need, and letters of safe passage. The provinces of Tirovor are friendly with Galladium, so I hope a note from me will open doors for you.”
He paused and looked at the three of them intently, in turn. “If you can manage this, I’ll be extremely grateful. You’ll be richly rewarded.”
“I don’t want that,” Anton said, realizing he was likely speaking out of turn. “I’d like to pay Natalya back for her kindness and Maryna has been my friend for years. I don’t want a reward for helping them.”
“That’s very noble,” the king said with a smile, and Anton was conscious of Queen Zofya’s bright gaze on him. “But I’m afraid I’ll give you one anyway.”
Gwynneth
Living in the farmhouse was comfortable enough, though not luxurious. But Gwynneth grew impatient as it snowed unrelentingly, piling up under the eaves and obscuring the lower windows. There was nothing to be done about it, since there was no way to travel right now.
So Gwynneth tried to relax and keep herself occupied. She’d become nearly friendly with Florian and Magda, who reminded Gwynneth of a rather gruff nurse she’d had as a girl in Norovaea. And like that nurse, Gwynneth charmed Magda until she was wholly on her side.
The other countryfolk were shyer at first, but after spending a dozen meals together, Gwynneth began to understand their dialect and could follow their conversations. They were an endless litany of complaints about unfair taxation, military impressment, and inflated currency; annoying, but hardly reason for a revolt.
Gwynneth and Devyn sat at the dinner table one evening with everyone else while Stella helped Magda wash the dishes. Gwynneth was full from another plain but delicious meal and perhaps too much ale. If she didn’t watch herself, she’d soon grow stout.
So she was only half-listening when she heard the oldest of the three men say, “and then they took her brother and shot him against the lodge wall.”
Gwynneth jerked into alertness. “What? Who’s brother? Who shot him?” She stared at the man wide-eyed.
The old peasant Derrk had remarkably sad eyes over a steel-gray beard, but now they looked angry.
Too late, Gwynneth thought of Devyn, sitting beside her, clearly interested. “You ought to go help Magda, darling,” she said, but Florian intervened.
“No, His Grace needs to hear these things. He’s old enough and needs to know what goes on in the world.”
In Gwynneth’s opinion, her children already knew far too much of what went on in the world, but she was outnumbered. So she shook her head and turned back to Derrk. “Can you please tell us what happened?”
Derrk hesitated, but at a nod from Florian said, “It was a month ago, before the weather turned bad. A young woman in our village—she runs the bakery—has a brother who’s gamekeeper on the Baron Kampen’s estate.”
Derrk paused and sighed. “The baron’s a randy sort, and his son’s no better. It’s always gone badly for any pretty local girls, so most of them leave for Kronfels as soon as they’re old enough to go. But Lotta inherited the bakery from her parents, so she stayed. And her brother always kept an eye on her.”
Gwynneth had a feeling she knew why the story ended the way it did, but she could tell from Devyn’s wide eyes he did not. He perhaps didn’t understand what randy meant either, but she hoped he’d ask Florian, not her. She nodded at Derrk by way of encouragement.
Derrk took a long drink of ale, wiped the froth from his mustache, then continued. “One day, while Lotta’s brother was busy on a hunt with the old baron, the young one came calling. Now Lotta is a pretty girl, but sturdy, and well able to take care of herself. So when the young sot made a grab for her, she cracked him over the head with a rolling pin a few times, then sent him on his way with a good tongue-lashing.”
“As she should have,” Devyn put in approvingly, and Gwynneth thanked the gods she’d raised a son who’d never behave that way.
“Indeed.” Derrk nodded. “Everyone in the village thought she’d done right. But the young baron wasn’t having it. His noggin all black and blue, he found his father, still on the hunt, and went crying to him.”
Devyn snorted.
“The old baron flew into a rage, seeing his precious boy get the beating his own father should have given him years ago. Those who were around said the old man had been drinking, as usual. He hollered for Lotta’s brother to come explain his sister’s behavior. Everyone said the young man was plenty respectful, though he flat out said he knew his sister, and that she wouldn’t hurt a fly for no reason.
“Well, that didn’t do for the old man and he carried on for a bit, foaming at the mouth and screeching about justice. While he did that, the young baron pointed his pistol at two grooms and ordered them to drag Lotta’s brother over to the hunting lodge. They didn’t want to, but the old baron waved his pistols about too.
“They hoped by the time they reached the lodge he would have settled down, but he hadn’t. He ordered them to stand the young fellow up against the wall, and then father and son each took a shot. The young baron, being somewhat less addled, shot him in the head, and that was that.”
“That’s monstrous!” Devyn exploded, jumping up from the table. “That’s
illegal everywhere in Kronland. If one of your employees or tenants misbehave, you take them in front of the magistrate.”
“I doubt young Baron Kampen wanted to explain himself to a magistrate,” Florian said wryly, though his eyes were serious.
“Well, he ought to.” Devyn stood against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes flashing. “And now he’s murdered someone, surely the magistrate has sent soldiers to bring him in?”
Everyone but Gwynneth shook their heads.
“It doesn’t work that way around here,” Florian said. “Hasn’t in a long time. Under Princess Viviane, the landowners have learned they can do what they want and get away with it. Lotta should have known better,” he added bitterly.
“What’s happened to her?” Gwynneth extended a hand to Devyn and pulled him back down on the bench beside her, feeling indignation radiating from him.
“She joined us,” Florian said, “and started the fire that burned down the Kampen manor.”
“Were the baron and his son inside?” Devyn asked, a gleam in his eye.
“Unfortunately, no.” Florian shook his head. “They’d heard there was trouble afoot and made for Kronfels.”
“We’ll tell Count Terris.” Devyn turned to Gwynneth. “He’ll see they’re brought to justice.”
“That’s kind of you,” Florian said. “But what about the others?”
“The others?” Devyn looked puzzled.
“This is just one story of dozens from the past few years. This is normal behavior from Isenwald aristocrats.”
“Then it must be stopped,” Devyn said.
“We’re stopping it,” Florian said. “And you’ll help us.”
Maryna
No one in the village they were staying in agreed to help Natalya.
“Are they afraid of Count Vega?” Maryna asked, after Natalya returned to their tiny room at the inn. She’d lingered in the dining room after a meal to talk to some locals.
Natalya shook her head with a laugh. “No, not him. It’s our escort. Apparently these women are part of the Duchesa Mantini’s guard, which is famous in the area for its brutality.”
Winter of the Wolf (The Desolate Empire Book 4) Page 43
