A petitioner was in the middle of a tearful plea to release a son jailed for public drunkenness when an angry muttering broke out near the throne room entrance.
What now? Laren wondered.
Two men pushed their way through the crowd to reach the head of the line.
“King’s business,” one of the men told them. “Make way for the king’s business.”
“I’ve got my own business with the king!” shouted one man who had been in line for a very long time.
Much to Laren’s surprise, the man pushing his way through the petitioners was one of her Riders. He was a tall rangy man with a thick black beard, his chin streaked with gray. Long hair was tied back into a ponytail. He went only by the name of Lynx—it was how he had signed his papers when he entered the messenger service.
A brooding, silent man who grew up in the northern wilds, he would not set foot in any city or large town if he didn’t have to. To Zachary’s line of thinking, that was just fine, for he had other uses for Lynx, such as keeping a secret watch on the boundaries.
Lynx did not wear the green uniform of the Riders, but the buckskin of a woodsman, nor did he carry the traditional saber—he preferred his forester’s knife and long bow. Laren had also heard he was handy with a throwing ax. The only thing about him that revealed his affiliation with the Riders was his brooch, but even that was invisible to all but other Riders.
So what sort of “king’s business” had brought Lynx out of the woods? Another stone deer?
The man following him was thin and haggard, his face ashen. He pressed his hand to his ribs as though in pain.
Lynx finally emerged from the crowd and bowed before the king. “Excellency,” he murmured, “the information I bring you is urgent.”
Zachary did not waste time. He gestured to Sperren, who banged his staff on the floor. “The public audience is concluded until further notice.”
There were glares and indignant protests, but no one resisted when guards in silver and black herded them out of the throne room. The great doors shut resoundingly after the last petitioner passed through.
“Greetings, Lynx,” Zachary said. “What is this urgent news of yours?”
“Excellency.” Lynx’s voice was like sandpaper. “I have with me here Durgan Atkins of the northern border, and recently a refugee in D’Ivary Province.”
The man glanced at Zachary, and Laren thought she caught a flash of anger and hatred in his eyes.
“Why have you come before me?” Zachary asked.
“Go ahead,” Lynx said to Atkins. “Talk.”
Atkins then raised his baleful gaze defiantly to Zachary. “All right. I’ll talk. My family and I fled to D’Ivary Province seeking safety. Groundmites repeatedly attacked our village on the border, and after losing kin and some of our best fighters, we saw no alternative except to seek safe haven within guarded borders. It was not an easy decision. We did not want to leave homesteads that we had carved from the forest with great hardship, and worked so long to defend.
“We tried to find some clearing or field where we might set up a household for a time. Some among us were injured, and most of us grieving. At every turn we were harassed and evicted. Even the common folk spat upon us and called us trespassers. We tried to offer work in exchange for refuge, but were refused.
“Thugs hired by the landowners forced us off the land, and so we were set to wandering. We were even attacked by bandits, but I suspect they were the hired cutthroats of the landowners. We were stripped of any belongings of value, and our young men beaten, and our daughters . . .” His expression nearly crumbled.
Zachary and the others said nothing, giving the man time to regain his composure. Although Zachary exuded quiet calm, Laren could almost feel the white hot fury building within him.
“Eventually we found others such as we,” Atkins continued, “encamped on a field that was no more than mud. It was cramped—there were hundreds—but none permitted to go beyond a perimeter guarded by soldiers.”
“Soldiers?” Zachary asked. “What soldiers do you speak of? D’Ivary has no militia.”
Durgan Atkins did not conceal his hatred. “Soldiers like the ones I see around here. Soldiers in silver and black.”
Sacoridian soldiers? Laren thought. That’s impossible . . .
The throne room had gone silent, and it was as if the air had been sucked out of the place. Zachary let go his king’s mask and no longer hid his fury.
Lynx nudged Atkins. “Tell them the rest.”
Atkins grunted. “One day the landowner comes down, looks at us as though we’re no more than cattle. Lord Nester, he was called. He picked some of the girls and women, and the soldiers took them away. They’ve not been returned to us . . . my nine-year-old girl was with them.”
Laren’s own hackles rose at this last. She had heard rumors about Nester and his appetites, but nothing had ever been proven. And no doubt he’d be well shielded by his brother-in-law, Lord-Governor D’Ivary.
“This Lord Nester,” Atkins continued, “he stood up on a block and announced to us that by proclamation of King Zachary all refugees were to be returned to the northern border.”
Zachary stood, hands clenched.
“They marched us.” The man’s voice had ground into a painful whisper. “They marched us hard to the border. Those too weak or sickly were killed outright so as not to slow the march. At night we were bunched together so there was hardly room to lay down. We were not given much food or water, just enough to keep us marching. Whatever girls or women Nester hadn’t chosen, the soldiers made use of. My wife . . .” He pointed at the king. “You brought this upon us! They were your soldiers, your words!”