In The Name of Love
61: Consequences

Twinkles of starlight and a few silvery shafts of moonlight pierce the leafy canopy of Sigurd’s grove, providing faint visibility on the ground. Sigurd and Kai sit with their backs against the trunk of a mighty oak, arms linked and eyes closed. The smell of burnt sage and hyssop hangs in the air around them. Between Sigurd’s legs are a mortar and pestle, rough-cut from stone and containing some mashed bark and leaves and berries. Nearby, Varsel is dozing, one hind leg lifted and making soft, snore-like snorts, but neither Kai nor Sigurd is remotely aware of him. Instead, inside their minds, they see and hear through the eyes and ears of Orvar, an owl that Sigurd has befriended.

Orvar soars noiselessly through the night, making his way to the manor house of the Earl of Lyrnola. Although the hour is late, the manor house is ablaze with the light of torches and candles. A large bonfire burns in the main courtyard, illuminating the many horses and soldiers who have accompanied King Ansgar there.

“Quite a lot of fuss,” Sigurd’s voice echoes in Kai’s head. “You’re sure this is about their extravagant taste, and not your relationship with his daughter?”

Kai doesn’t reply. Maintaining his concentration on sensing what Orvar senses is hard enough without giving in to such upsetting, guilt-provoking thoughts. The idea had occurred to him earlier, but he figures that Ingemar, at least, would have told him if that was the case.

“To what do we owe the honor of an unexpected visit from Your Majesty?” Fritjof is saying to King Ansgar with an obsequious tone and an overdone bow. Beside him, Birgitta is fluttering her gilt lace fan in front of her face and swaying as though she might swoon at any second.

“I see you are exactly as my daughter wrote me,” King Ansgar remarks roughly as he swings off his horse, landing on the ground with a clash of armor. He waves a hand at them with disgust that Kai thinks must be owed to their elaborate clothing, rich velvet embroidered with pearls.

“I am not sure what you mean, Your Majesty.”

“You dress above your station. And this manor is in far better condition than the villages we rode through on our way here.”

Fritjof and Birgitta exchange stunned glances, then turn back to the king wide-eyed. Orvar perches on a corner of the roof overlooking the courtyard, allowing Kai and Sigurd a better view. Kai, at least, wasn’t complaining even when the scene was turning as the owl circled overhead; Orvar’s eyesight and hearing are far superior to his own.

“Dress above our station?” Birgitta repeats, waving her fan about with agitation. “Whatever do you mean? How should the nobility of the greatest country in all of Lokva dress?”

King Ansgar glowers at them for a few moments, then turns to the soldiers and armored nobles around him. “Search the house. Bring out every person you replace within, regardless of age or condition. And tell me about what you see inside.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they answer him severally as they spring into action. Some staff are already coming out of side doors into the courtyard, wiping their hands on aprons or through their hair and trying to make themselves look presentable for the king.

“Oh, Your Majesty, there’s no need to bother the staff,” Fritjof protests, starting to look a bit concerned. “Surely they cannot tell you anything we are not perfectly able to tell you ourselves, Your Majesty.”

“On the contrary, I doubt you have any real insight into how they and their families live,” the king retorts.

“Better than they would without us, to be sure,” Birgitta twitters. “Better than most commoners, anyway.”

“And why do the commoners not live well?”

“Well, why should they? They’re commoners. They exist to support and serve us.” Birgitta’s haughty tone and cold words draw wrathful glances towards her from the servants and staff already present in the courtyard. Orvar turns his head away from the scene to scratch an itch on his back with his beak, giving Kai a view of brown feathers, but he still hears the crack of a hand hitting a face and a sharp, pained squawk from Birgitta. When Orvar turns back to the courtyard, the Countess has collapsed against her husband, crying and holding an already-reddening cheek.

“It seems hearing from your staff is a mere formality, after all,” King Ansgar grumbles, arms folded across his chest.

“This seems to be everyone, Your Majesty,” Karl interrupts as he and Ingemar emerge from the manor house, each carrying one of Kai’s twin half-brothers. The boys stare around them with wide eyes and quivering lips.

“You haven’t found Nicolaas?”

Karl and Ingemar shake their heads.

“Skogsbror isn’t home,” one of the twins whines.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” Albin’s creaking voice interjects. “The Young Lord is often away working to help the people who live in Lyrnola.”

“Are you willing to attest to this in Court?” King Ansgar asks, turning his attention to Albin.

“I’d stake my life on it.”

Other members of the staff decide to speak up:

“He was always kind to us, and never uppity.”

“Even helped with the gardening and groundskeeping from time to time.”

“The Young Lord brought food to my cottage when I was laid up with a broken foot and couldn’t work.”

“How dare you speak up for him and say nothing in support of me?” Fritjof demands, glaring at the servants in the courtyard. “Have you forgotten who pays your wages?”

“Enough,” King Ansgar declares. Everyone falls silent except for a confused rooster somewhere in the courtyard, who decides this is an opportune moment to crow. “This is not the time or place for a trial of the former Earl and Countess of Lyrnola. Men, arrest them.”

Birgitta screams and tries to run away, but immediately trips over her heavy skirts and falls to the ground.

“I beg Your pardon, Your Majesty?!” Fritjof splutters. Soldiers yank his wife out of the dirt and start putting both the Earl and the Countess in chains.

“I am the King, and my word is law. You will keep silent in the presence of your sovereign henceforth, unless I ask you a question directly.” Orvar’s vantage point doesn’t provide Kai a view of King Ansgar’s face, but he can imagine the king’s harrowing glare. “Now, to business. I believe that managing Lyrnola would be an excellent project for Prince Emrik, so that he may gain hands-on experience in the skills required to rule a country well and justly. He will do so with mentorship from some of my advisors, and will spend at least half of his time in this house. As such, those of you who work here will keep your jobs, and your wages and the taxes of Lyrnola will be reevaluated at the earliest possible opportunity.”

Murmurs of thanks ripple through the clusters of staff in the courtyard.

“Now, these two boys. Are they yours?” King Ansgar gestures at the twins, whom Karl and Ingemar have set down, but directs this question at Fritjof, who is red-faced and quivering with indignant rage.

“Yes,” he mutters. Kai is amazed; Orvar can hear even this low voice clear as a bell and detect exactly where it’s coming from. Such an amazing, magnificent creature, he marvels.

“What are their names, and how old are they?”

“I’m Magnus, and this is Markus,” one twin volunteers as Fritjof refuses to answer.

“We’re six years old,” Markus adds. Both boys smile winningly at the king.

“There might be hope for them yet, with proper guidance, to be worthy of the title of Earl. Unlike their father.”

“Begging Your pardon, Your Majesty, but are you seeking someone willing to take them in and offer that guidance?” one of the armored nobles who accompanied the king to Lyrnola inquires. The man steps out of the crowd and removes his helmet, allowing Kai to recognize him as Karl’s father, the Viscount of Fyrlenth.

“Perhaps. Are you volunteering?”

“I can think of no greater honor, Your Majesty, nor anything my wife would like more.”

“Then that honor shall be yours. Choose a couple men to help you get them to your estate. I believe it’s a bit of a journey from here.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

“Now, those of you who work here. Decide amongst yourselves who shall come to Adelhyod to testify in the trial of your former Lord and Lady, and who shall remain to prepare for my son’s arrival. My men will help prepare horses and vehicles, as appropriate, to transport you and our prisoners to Adelhyod. Make haste.”

Kai drops his concentration on Orvar, catapulting his consciousness back to his body in the dark woodland grove. He has seen all he cared to see, and now that he knows the people he cares about will be safe, exhaustion and relief flood his being.

Beside him, Sigurd stirs in the darkness.

“Fortunate for you,” the older cybrinn remarks. “So far you have not been burned.”

“I have always been blessed with good companions,” Kai answers. “Speaking of which. Orvar is phenomenal. How did you get him to like you?”

“Found him with a broken wing and fixed him up. You’ll gain companions of that kind, no doubt, now that you’ve given up society as I have.”

Kai nods, wondering if Fifi will still want to join him under these circumstances. I have to replace a way to talk to her, he resolves, but his eyes are drooping shut in spite of his best efforts.

“That ritual was difficult. We should both rest,” Sigurd tells him, gesturing to the tiny hut he’s made in a hollow beneath some shrubs.

“Thank you for everything,” Kai replies. It’s at least the eighteenth time he’s thanked Sigurd since he arrived in the grove this evening.

Sigurd just grunts and waves off Kai’s thanks, as usual. Kai smiles slightly and stumbles into the hut behind Sigurd, thanking Cybarei that his friends are safe and that he has such a mentor.