In the Enemy's Service (Annals of Alasia Book 2)

by Annie Douglass Lima

  “It wasn’t enough.” Lasden’s voice was almost inaudible. He still wasn’t looking at them. “I know that now. I knew it all along, actually. I just wasn’t man enough to do anything about it. And now it’s too late.”

  Anya looked from Tonnis to Eleya, whose faces reflected the surprise she felt. It was hard to believe they were hearing this from a soldier, even a kind one like Lasden.

  “If you really want to do more, you could let me go home,” Anya suggested hopefully, even though she knew it was a long shot. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life working here. I want to learn to be a tailor.”

  The lieutenant sighed again. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. The captain would never allow it.” He looked up and met her gaze for the first time. “I’m sorry, Anya. I’m sorry this had to happen to you. I’m sorry it happened to Alasia. I’m sorry I was a part of it.”

  All three of them stared at him. “Are you apologizing for the Invasion?” Eleya demanded incredulously.

  Lasden shrugged and glanced at her briefly before looking away again. “For all the good it will do. It was a mistake; a terrible mistake. A meticulously planned, precisely implemented, tremendously successful mistake.” His words came tumbling over each other as though they had been waiting to be let out. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never stop regretting my role in it; never stop seeing the faces of the innocent people I killed. I should have said no. I should have asked for a different assignment, requested a transfer, begged for a leave of absence, pretended to be sick, anything. But no. My company was chosen, and like a good soldier, I came with all the rest of them. Followed orders. Did my duty. Served my kingdom. Made my father proud, perhaps, if anything could. And now I’ll have to live with myself for the rest of my life.”

  Anya was speechless. She had never imagined a hardened soldier would have a conscience, would care if he had done wrong or caused suffering. True, Lasden did seem nicer than most, but she had never dreamed he was carrying such a burden of guilt and shame.

  “And now I’m going back to Malorn, where I’ll probably be hailed as a wounded hero returning victorious,” the soldier continued relentlessly. “I ought to have died in combat like Morriss. Not that my death could pay for the wrong I did, but it would have been what I deserved.”

  “I think you’ve got a worse punishment than that,” Eleya observed sympathetically. “Living with yourself; coming to terms with what you did.”

  “Terms?” Lasden laughed bitterly. “What terms? How can I possibly come to terms with such an atrocity?”

  “Well, you’re sorry for it, anyway,” Anya pointed out. “That’s got to count for something.”

  “Being sorry doesn’t change anything. It can’t bring back those I killed. It can’t comfort their grieving families or undo the damage I helped inflict on a peaceful kingdom that hasn’t harmed Malorn in generations. I wish I were going back to be punished, not just transferred. At least that would be justice.”

  “Give yourself a little grace, Lieutenant,” Tonnis urged. “You can’t change what you did, but you can decide the course your life is going to take from here.”

  “Grace?” Lasden scoffed. “Why would someone like me deserve grace?”

  “You don’t deserve it,” Tonnis told him earnestly, “but would it really be grace if you did? Justice is deserved; grace is given just because. I think you should stop wallowing in your guilt and instead let it direct you toward better choices.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Doctor,” Lasden muttered, staring at the wall once more. “You’re not the one going back to Headquarters today. They’re going to give me some desk job until my leg is better and then redeploy me. I’ll probably end up being sent right back here again.”

  “But surely you wouldn’t do anything like this a second time,” Anya objected. “Not if you really feel so terrible about it. You’ll ask for a different assignment or something, like you said.”

  “Yes, maybe.” But Lasden frowned. “I knew a soldier once who kept doing that. He was always asking for different assignments and complaining when he didn’t get the ones he wanted. His commanding officer got sick of it and warned him, but he didn’t stop. Finally one time he just refused to follow orders.”

  “So then what happened?” Anya wondered.

  “He was demoted.” Lasden made it sound like the worst possible punishment.

  Tonnis frowned. “Surely you don't have to worry about that. I didn’t think officers could get demoted, at least not to the level of regular soldiers. Isn’t lieutenant already the lowest rank of officer?”

  “Yes. And you’re right, under ordinary circumstances,” Lasden told him. “But they make exceptions now and then, especially in wartime. It’s designed to be the ultimate humiliation.”

  “Perhaps, but surely there are even worse fates than that,” Eleya suggested dryly. “Like continuing to do something you know is wrong?”

  A pause. Lasden seemed to be considering this. Then, “Yes. Yes, I suppose that is worse. And I’ve been doing that long enough.” He straightened up, and for the first time, there was something other than discouragement in his voice. A hint of determination, of hope. “I’ll do what I should have at the beginning. I’ll request a transfer. Surely they can use me in the Western Wilderness to help keep those bandits at bay. At least that’s a cause that’s actually worth fighting for.”

  “And if your request is denied?” Eleya wanted to know. “What then?”

  Lasden didn’t answer right away. He chewed his lip for a moment, his mind obviously far off. “In that case,” he replied finally, “I’ll have some difficult decisions to make. But I know one thing. Whatever the consequences, I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

  An hour later, Anya watched as the soldiers on duty pulled open one of the palace gates for Lasden to ride out. He wore a pack on his back and a distant expression on his face. Anya wondered if she would ever see him again, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to or not. She waved, but he didn’t wave back.

  Chapter 11

  That evening half a dozen unfamiliar soldiers trotted into the courtyard, Lasden’s replacement at their head. His name, they quickly learned, was Lieutenant Dwiller; and over the next few days Anya discovered that he was nothing like Lasden. He never spoke to any of the Alasians except to give orders or demand to know why they had not completed their assigned tasks to his satisfaction. He had a large meaty fist, and he made use of it to thump anyone he felt wasn’t working hard enough.

  Anya didn’t need Eleya’s warning to stay out of his way. For four whole days she succeeded in avoiding the new lieutenant, hardly leaving the clinic, depressed at the thought that this might be the way she would have to spend the rest of her life.

  “It won’t be,” Wennish assured her, panting, when she confided her concern to him one morning. He flopped tiredly on his bed to take a break from the sit-ups he had been doing. At Tonnis’s suggestion, the wounded guard had begun exercising a little every day to try to get his strength back. He couldn’t do much before he had to lie down, pale and out of breath, but Anya had never seen anyone so determined.

  “Prince Jaymin is coming back,” Wennish declared, propping himself up on one elbow and reaching for the cup of water she was holding ready. “I don’t know when, but he’s coming, and then he’ll drive the Malornians out and Alasia will be free again. We just have to be ready.”

  “He’s only twelve,” Anya objected, supporting the cup with one hand as Wennish raised it to his lips, since his hand was shaking. “How do you know he’ll be able to save us all?” Though she wanted to believe the young prince was capable of anything, freedom seemed less and less likely with every passing day. “Besides, the enemy is searching for him. They’ve seen his portrait, remember?”

  Wennish took a final gulp and handed the cup back. “He’s in disguise somewhere. I’m sure of it.” The guard’s voice was confident. “He’s too smart to go around looking like himself. And twelve or not, he’
s good with a sword. I’ve seen him practice. Besides, young Jaymin is his father’s son. I’m certain he’s been busy thinking up a plan, maybe with the help of whoever it is Tonnis meets in the market on Fridays.”

  Whoever Tonnis had been meeting hadn’t been there last time. The physician had returned with their week’s worth of herbs, a roll of new bandages, and a worried expression.

  “He was nowhere to be seen,” he had whispered as Eleya and Anya had helped him put away his purchases. “I hope he hasn’t been caught.”

  “Maybe he just had somewhere else to be today,” Eleya had suggested. “It’s probably nothing to worry about.”

  “He could be with the prince or on an assignment for him,” Wennish, who had been listening from his doorway, had pointed out. “They could be about to put some plan into action.”

  At the time, Anya had felt a spark of hope, but it was gone today. Probably Tonnis’s contact had been discovered and captured. Nothing seemed likely to change any time soon.

  But something did change that day, though not in the way they had been hoping. All morning Anya had noticed people bustling anxiously around the courtyard, sweeping the cobblestones and polishing the palace windows. She thought that the soldiers on duty seemed nervous, expectant.

  That afternoon they found out why. Anya was startled by a loud trumpet fanfare from outside, and she hastened to the clinic door to see what was happening. The heavy gates were being pulled slowly open – all the way open, which was rare – and through them marched what seemed almost to be a parade. First there were a hundred or more soldiers on foot, all marching in step in rows of five. Two of the men in front were blowing trumpets, and a third carried the Malornian flag on a tall pole. Their black boots were polished almost as shiny as the metal shields strapped to their arms. They were followed by dozens of soldiers on horseback riding in neat rows, even the horses staying nearly in step with each other. Behind them came a fancy carriage, black and red with gold trim, pulled by six matching black horses; and behind that more mounted soldiers, followed by even more on foot.

  Inside the open carriage sat a tall man, dark hair faded partly to gray, dressed in expensive-looking clothing. He gazed around with interest as the carriage rolled into the courtyard, his eyes taking in the palace and grounds. He completely ignored Captain Almanian’s soldiers who had lined up and were standing to attention, and the Alasians scattered here and there around the courtyard watching. Instead, he stared up at the gleaming palace before him, a faint smile on his face.

  Watching him, Anya shivered involuntarily. He looked cold and cruel. Though he was smiling, it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was more like a finally I’ve got what I want, and I don’t care how much it cost sort of smile.

  “Regent Rampus. Welcome to Almar, sir,” Captain Almanian greeted the newcomer when the carriage had rolled to a stop before the palace steps.

  So this was Regent Rampus, the assistant ruler of Malorn. Anya wondered if Prince Korram had sent him here to see how their conquered territory was doing. Funny, though: the regent’s expression didn’t look like that of an assistant. He seemed so proud, so haughty, so in control. It was as though he fancied himself more than just second in command.

  She had the chance to see for herself what the regent was like late that evening. Supper was over and Eleya had just returned from taking their dishes back to the dining hall, when an unfamiliar soldier strode into the clinic. He marched all the way through the front and back rooms and stuck his head into Wennish’s room, where they were all sitting and talking by lamplight.

  “Are you Anya? Regent Rampus wants to see you.”

  “Me?” Anya gulped, anxiously clutching the mitten she was knitting. She glanced around at the others, who looked equally puzzled. “Why me?”

  The soldier chuckled. “Why isn’t a question we ask when the regent gives an order. You’d just better come right away so you don’t give him reason to be angry.”

  Anya set her knitting aside and rose to her feet. “It’s probably nothing to worry about,” Eleya assured her, squeezing her hand encouragingly. “Captain Almanian probably just wants to introduce Rampus to all the key people here in the palace, and you did help save his life not long ago.” All the same, Anya’s stomach fluttered anxiously as she shrugged on her coat and followed the soldier out of the clinic and across the courtyard.

  He led the way into the palace through the main entrance, and then along a corridor Anya had never been down before. It ended in what looked like a fancy waiting room, with chairs and sofas and a deep soft rug underfoot. Two more soldiers stood there, one on either side of an archway in the opposite wall from which a blue velvet curtain hung in thick folds.

  “Wait here,” the man who had brought her ordered. He drew aside the curtain just far enough to slip inside. A moment later he returned and beckoned her through. “The regent will see you now.”

  Nervously, Anya pushed past the heavy curtain and found herself in a large oval room with a gleaming marble floor. The vaulted ceiling, supported by ornate pillars, rose so high at its peak that the top was invisible in the shadows. Lamps hung from gilded hooks halfway up the side of each pillar, with a crisp-uniformed soldier standing below each one; she counted eight all together.

  A long, narrow strip of red carpet led down the center of the room and up three steps to a platform on which stood what must once have been King Jaymin’s throne. It was a massive chair that seemed to be made mostly of gold, two sparkling sweeps of multicolored jewels forming fancy swirly patterns across its sides and arms. It glittered so brightly in the lamplight that Anya had to squint when she looked at it. Behind the throne and across most of the width of the room hung a majestic backdrop of more curtains, attached not to the ceiling but to tall silver stands rising from the floor in a semi-circle. Anya wondered what lay behind their royal blue folds and why the throne sat in the middle of the room and not against the back wall.

  Captain Almanian and Lieutenant Dwiller stood on the carpet before the platform, looking up a little to make eye contact with the regent. Rampus was lounging comfortably on the throne’s velvet seat, his satisfied expression suggesting he had achieved something he had been looking forward to for quite some time. But wasn’t that throne actually supposed to be Prince Korram’s now?

  The three men had apparently been conversing, but they fell silent when Anya came in, all of them turning to look at her. “Well, what are you standing there for? Come here, child,” the regent ordered impatiently as she stood staring nervously at him and around the room. His voice echoed from the vaulted ceiling, which rose to its highest point right above his head, the echoes making his words sound grand and lofty.

  Hesitantly, Anya proceeded along the carpet, feeling conspicuous in the large, quiet room. Was she supposed to stop at some point and curtsy? Wasn’t that what you did for someone on a throne? But Regent Rampus wasn’t a king.

  Better safe than sorry, she decided. He looked like the kind of person who would probably prefer to be paid the additional honor even if it wasn’t technically required. She stopped a few steps from the platform and dropped into a humble curtsy, then stood with her eyes downcast. Let him think I’m in awe of him, or being extra respectful. It was easy to fake, since she was nervous anyway.

  “This is that eight-year-old girl you told me about?” Rampus demanded of the captain.

  “Yes, sir,” Almanian confirmed.

  “She doesn’t look like anything special,” the regent observed doubtfully, and Anya felt her cheeks flush in indignation.

  “She’s shown herself reliable in following our instructions, sir, as I’m told she has been in her work in the clinic,” the captain answered. “Since she can’t read, I’ve had no qualms about allowing her into my office; and she’s proved trustworthy. Besides, she’s half Malornian.”

  “Interesting.” Anya looked up to see the regent peering at her the way a person might inspect a piece of fruit he was considering purchasing. “You can’t read, g
irl?”

  “No, sir,” Anya told him, ignoring the twinge of guilt that came with the lie. “I don’t go to school. I’m an apprentice.”

  “In what trade?” he demanded, as though testing her.

  “Sewing, sir,” Anya replied without hesitation. “I work for a tailor.”

  “And you’re half Malornian? That’s unusual. Which parent was from Malorn, your mother or father?”

  “My father’s Malornian, sir.” She knew Father wouldn’t like that. He had always been proud to tell people that he was half Malornian and half Alasian. But the regent might be kinder to her this way, as Captain Almanian had been. “Father was born in Sazellia,” she went on, feeling better as she added truth to her lie. “We have lots of relatives still over there.”

  “I see. But you get along well with the Alasian palace workers, do you not?”

  Anya was puzzled by the question. “Well, yes, sir. I get along with pretty much everyone. Except soldiers if they’re mean to me.”

  The regent ignored that last part. “People talk freely in front of you, I would imagine. No one would suspect a young child of paying too much attention to her elders’ conversations.”

  Anya’s heart gave a little jump. Did he know about her eavesdropping? “I-I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” she stammered.

  The man on the throne chuckled humorlessly. “You often overhear what adults are saying, whether they intend you to or not. Correct?”

  Was it a trap? But if he knew, surely he would have ordered her to be punished already. “Well, yes, sir, I suppose so,” she managed finally.

  The regent nodded, as though he had suspected as much. “Your family. They must be worried about you, don’t you think?”

  Anya was bewildered. Was he changing the subject, or were all these questions somehow connected? “I’m sure they are, sir.”