No one seemed to believe that, though. And the very threat she had hoped to avoid was materializing before her eyes. Athesia was losing its pride and power by the hour.
Her father had tried to prepare her for this critical moment. It was as if he had expected his death to undo the legacy of eighteen years of hard work and sacrifice. And now, there was no going back. Eracia and Caytor had to acknowledge her rule.
So far, her plan was not working out as she had expected. They were stalling, knowing well that time was on their side. They had nothing to lose while they waited, letting her fret. The fake claims for the Athesian throne were a very powerful counteraction. Eracia had yet to come up with its own scheme, but it was obvious they would not back down easily. There was still no official response from the High Council of Trade, but Stephan’s letter could have just gotten lost. Rumors said Monarch Leopold was sending an envoy to sort things out. The Parusites were awfully quiet, but that meant little. Now that her father was dead, they might cast an eye north again.
She really missed her father. He would have known. Then again, they would not have dared challenge him in the first place. Amalia hated herself for being so weak. She was starting to doubt herself. That was the beginning of the end. She could not let it happen, but she was powerless to prevent it. She was lost.
Amalia looked around her room. There were some dresses laid out over a chair, and an empty fruit basket. For a moment, she considered calling Agatha, but the girl was in the kitchens, eating her dinner. Amalia had not eaten; she was just too exhausted.
Besides, she was Adam’s daughter. She could sort her own sleeping chamber, if needed. Not that she was going to. All she wanted was to undress and sleep, let her mind unravel. Hopefully, she would have no nightmares.
The empress walked to her nightstand, cold, bright moonlight streaming through large floor-to-ceiling windows her only companion. Carefully, she laid the bloodstaff against the cabinet. The slender crystal rod felt so fragile, but it was harder than steel. She splashed the lukewarm water in the washbowl with her hands, watching the wilted flowers bob on the rippling surface.
Then, she felt the hackles rise on her nape.
With animal conviction, she realized there was someone else in the room.
She spun around, gasping with alarm, the bloodstaff aimed low, her grip steady.
Seated in one of the many plush chairs, almost unseen in the silver shadows, was an ageless man, dressed in what looked like white leathers, legs crossed, reading a book, apparently comfortable with the low level of lighting. He was not paying any attention to her, although she was convinced he knew exactly what she was doing.
“Lovely book,” he said, his accent flat and strange. “The Choices, such an apt name. Very good. Very good. Is that what you’re reading before sleep, Empress? Don’t you have better things to do?”
She was thinking, her mind racing. Should she just fire the bloodstaff and kill the intruder? What did it take to claim another life? Should she call for help? Her security detail was just outside her chamber doors. They would take a few seconds getting in, assessing the situation. Would they be able to handle this stranger?
He did not seem interested in violence, but Amalia knew he was lethal. Every inch of his being radiated ruthlessness. It was sadistic efficiency in absolute form, perfected over many years.
And then, there was exhilaration and curiosity. Her skin itched with excitement. There was a knot of hot, taut power in her belly. She felt dizzy. If the stranger had wanted to kill her, he would have probably done that already.
Or he may be toying with her. He could be a predator, watching his prey squirm. He was watching her, expecting her to take flight, waiting to hunt her down and savage her.
She said nothing. She waited.
“You have something that belongs to me,” he said when he realized she would not speak. He seemed pleased.
“What?” she asked, breaking her silence.
“That thing you’re holding,” he said, pointing. “And a certain book.” He pointed at the table. “I’m glad that you keep them by your side at all times. It seems that you do perceive their importance. Still, they are mine, dear.”
Amalia could hear blood pounding in her ears. The blood-staff was a thing of magic, but no one really knew that. No one understood that it was a weapon. It was a rumor, nothing more. The stranger in her room seemed very familiar with it, though.
“My father gave these to me,” she stated simply.
The man nodded, unfolded his long legs, and rose in one slow, fluid motion. “He may have. He very well may have done that, indeed. But that does not change the fact the item you’re holding is, in fact, mine. Do you know what that it is?”
She nodded. “It’s a weapon I will use to kill you unless you identify yourself and state your intentions.”
He slapped his forehead. “How crude of me. Manners! My name is Calemore. I’m also known as the White Witch of Naum. I have a few other, fairly impressive titles, but I doubt they will mean much to you.”
Amalia was trying to think. His name and title meant nothing. Father had never told her anything about this man. She knew that a certain Lord Erik had given the weapon to her father, but then, the man had vanished, taking away the mystery of his deadly gift with him. Should the man ever return to demand his gifts back, she should hand them over, no questions asked.
“The bloodstaff was given to my father by a man called Lord Erik. You are not him.”
He smiled wickedly. “Am I not? Oh dear. What if I told you Lord Erik is my father, just as…Adam was yours? Then, this entire affair becomes almost idyllic.”
She tightened the grip on the glass rod. Her fingers were inches away from the black marks. “This weapon is mine. Unless you can prove you’re the rightful owner, you will not have it.”
Calemore wagged a finger. “I knew you would say that. I’m not unreasonable. We can probably work something out. Call it a bargain.”
She should fire, obliterate him into a pulp. There was no point to this conversation. But the man’s penetrating gaze stayed her hand. She wanted to hear more. A moment of perfect clarity imbued her. It was such an intimate knowledge of death that she shivered.
“I will trade my toys in return for your maidenhood,” he said.
Amalia froze. “Get lost,” she growled.
The White Witch tsked. “I guessed as much. You simply do not understand how powerful and valuable that thing is. If you really did, you would have given away ten maidenhoods just to keep it. Which makes you unworthy of its power.” He reached forward. “Give it to me.”
“For all I know, you’re just some crazy Eracian spy,” she said and pressed.
Nothing happened. The bloodstaff was cool and quiet.
Calemore laughed. It was only a whisper, but it felt like thunder. She stepped back.
“Not bad. It takes courage to use the bloodstaff. Although you cannot possibly expect to use it against me. I created that lovely thing.” He pursed his lips. “I’m fascinated by human hope. Even against overwhelming odds, humans will stick to their foolish instincts. But you really should not have done that. The bloodstaff is not a weapon of negotiation. It’s a weapon of total dominance. You do not use it as diplomatic leverage; you use it to massacre everyone and everything.”
To her credit, she did not back down. She kept her fingers pressed on the black marks, but she did not panic. She was beyond panic. She was floating on a cloud of white terror.
Dad told me the same thing, she thought, bile rising in her throat. How could he know?
He beckoned again. “Now, can I have my bloodstaff, please? You’re obviously not quite sure what to do with it, girl. It’s empty.” He pointed. “Unless you want to bargain some more. But the price has gone up now. It will cost you more than your maidenhood. But I’m reasonable.” He licked his lips in a very deliberate manner. “Now, the other question I have is, what would you be willing to do to keep just the book?”
&nbs
p; The man’s knowledge was frightening. He may not be Lord Erik, but he did know too much. Part of her considered trying to reason with him, even though she knew she was probably no match to his cunning. But the rest of her would not let go. She could not let go.
“Guards!” she shouted.
The double doors swung open. Three soldiers rushed in, looking around, trying to adjust their eyes to the darkness of the chamber. Calemore did not wait. He leaped like a cat, charging the first man. He turned the sword blade away and punched the man in the face. The burly soldier staggered back, stunned.
The second guard swung at the man in white, but he only gracefully stepped away from the arcing metal with a minimum of effort, the sadistic, ever-knowing smile plastered on his sculptured features. The guard attacked again—and missed a second time. Calemore turned inside his blow, stepped close, and grabbed the soldier’s arm. He twisted. The arm snapped like a twig, with a loud, sickening crack.
Wailing, the soldier collapsed. Calemore pried the sword from the broken grip and used it just in time to parry an attack from behind. The third guard charged in a dash of short slashes. Calemore danced around him, toying with him. Then, he slashed once, twice, and the Athesian went down in a fountain of dark blood.
The first soldier was just coming to his senses. He realized the attacker was dangerous. Rather than engaging him again, he inched back toward the corridor and called for help. Smart man, Amalia thought, watching the brief fight with fascination. The White Witch turned to face her.
“I’m losing my patience. Give me the bloodstaff!” He panted, but the smile never went away.
Instead of surrendering, she swung the weapon like a pole. It was an awkward, desperate gesture. Calemore caught the bloodstaff with his free hand, stopping her attack as if it had no momentum, and yanked it free from her grip. She staggered forward from the impact, her arms numb.
He dropped the sword and wound his long fingers into her hair. Fast, so fast. She had no time to react. He pulled her close. Her eyes watered with pain.
“Nice smell,” he said and bit her neck playfully.
Behind him, two more soldiers had joined the remaining survivor, both armed with crossbows. They were aiming at him, but would not fire. They might accidentally hit the empress. Their faces were grim, determined, and pale with naked fear.
Calemore turned halfway toward them, keeping his eyes on Amalia. “Would you give your lives away for a petulant little girl?” he asked. “Is she worth it?”
Without waiting for any kind of reply, he shoved her away, hard, and danced into the fray. She hit one of the chairs, losing her balance and toppling over. Screams erupted in the corridor. A crossbow bolt hit the far wall, wide off mark. The three men fought bravely, briefly. They died quickly.
The White Witch stepped back into the chamber and walked toward Amalia. She tried to rise, but he kicked her in the face. Purple pain exploded in her eyes. The room spun. Colors merged into a morbid display of grays. When she regained her senses, Calemore was craning over one of the dead soldiers, the bloodstaff propped against the corpse. Blood was rising inside the hollow glass rod.
A soldier stormed into the chamber. Calemore leveled the weapon and fired. Nuggets of frozen blood tore into flesh like claws, ripping the man apart. The pellets sliced through him easily and beyond, shredding furniture and chipping the masonry. The room filled with a flurry of debris.
Then, suddenly, he was standing above her, an imposing, perfect figure of death. She felt like a little girl. She was no empress. She could not lead a nation. She was meddling in things far beyond her abilities.
He bent down. Two more soldiers rushed in, distracting him for a second. They fell down, swatted like flies. The far wall of the corridor was pockmarked with pellet holes and smeared in chunks of bloody meat.
His smile looked like a snarl now. “You are a foolish little child,” he whispered. “And you’re too stupid to appreciate the power you have been given. You’re too weak.” He slapped her hard with the book. Her lip tore.
“I should probably kill you, just to teach you a lesson, but I’m rather busy now.” And with that, he left. He stepped boldly into the corridor and plowed his way out of the Imperial Manse, a wake of death and screams following him.
Amalia lay on the floor, curled in a fetal position, sobbing. She had just lost her dignity, her pride, and her most important strategic weapon. Without the bloodstaff, how could she hope to defend Athesia against overwhelming numbers? How could she do anything right?
She wanted to sleep, to forget everything. She hoped Father was there to comfort her. But no one came. Even when soldiers finally did find her, in a pool of blood and tears, even when they administered the cuts on her cheek and lip with a salve and soft gauze, she barely felt their mechanical, dutiful touches. She was all alone.
CHAPTER 14
“There are several things you need to pay attention to,” Otis lectured as they walked off the practice grounds, James covered in sweat and bits of hay and bruised all over. He was angry, because Hector had humiliated him. Timothy trailed behind, struggling under the weight of padded leather armor and practice swords. Two bodyguards shadowed from some distance.
“You need to handle the other claimants before they gain too much power. They must either be persuaded to step down, join your forces, or be eliminated. Then, you must woo the council to get their full approval for your campaign. Finally, you prepare for war.”
James felt this was too much. Day after day, the pressure grew, physical, emotional, mental. More and more people came to see him and talk to him, courting him, hinting at future favors and business deals. They were a storm of empty faces and false grins, spinning until they became a sickly blur of colors. His head burst with new information he could hardly grasp. And they made him feel important, to the point any little thing he did might affect the lives of thousands of people. When the emperor farted, winds blew across the realms, it seemed.
“Slow down,” James said. “One thing at a time. You mentioned other claimants?”
Otis rolled his eyes, annoyed. “Yes. Six of them so far. Two could pose serious trouble. Some young fellow named Vere of Eybalen and Lord Martel are your biggest enemies right now. Martel is supported by the shipwrights guild, so they control all the seagoing commerce. But then, the act of force may just be a negotiation tactic. They will probably withdraw their claims if you offer them favorable deals once you take over Athesia.”
James realized the false emperors were more a threat to Otis and Melville than himself. If they could come up with the idea of sponsoring a new Athesian emperor, then any two councillors could do the same thing. It was a game of power. Some other members of the High Council were obviously displeased that James’s patrons were trying to shift the balance of power in their favor.
Sometimes, when he did think about it in more detail, he felt disgusted. He wanted to give up and just go back to his real life. For all he knew, it could all be a ruse. He might not really be Adam’s son. But his mother would not lie to him.
“It would be prudent to commission an assassination or two. You may want to start with one of the lesser threats. This will give others a reason to think through their decisions. The same goes for a number of councillors. And high councillors. I have this list here.” He handed over a paper.
They stepped around a corner, into a long corridor supported by slender columns and opening toward a large round pool. A knot of younger nobles was sitting at the edge of the pool, cooling their legs in the water. When they saw James, they waved. He ignored them and walked on.
James left smudge marks as he scanned the death warrant, every single name and title and profession a complete stranger. James paled. Otis made it sound so casual, but it was a real, brutal, deadly war between the major powers in Caytor. His claim for the Athesian throne was merely a pretext. If he were not careful, the realm could spin into a civil war. For a moment, he felt unimportant, insignificant, a sideshow.
However, in the same heartbeat, he felt he had the power to make a difference. His influence may be ethereal for now, but if he played this game carefully and cleverly, he might be able to stay in control and govern things. Watch, listen and learn, Master Neal said. Perhaps the old man had it right. But sometimes, it felt too much. He wanted to scream.
Everything his two sponsors had promised depended on his cooperation with their plans. They would help him become the emperor of a new, young, contested realm if he helped them become the most powerful councillors in Caytor. It was simple and obvious. The financing, the training, the army, they all belonged and listened to Otis and Melville. For all practical purposes, he was a hostage. He had followers, but they believed in the idea he represented, not the person he was.
Two months at the mansion had given him a perspective on things that differed from what his former life had taught him. There were moments when he thought his mother had made a poor decision. But she was not just an ordinary woman. And she had…He could not let weakness smother him. He was the son of an emperor. That was a hard truth to cling to. But it gave him strength. He may need to humiliate himself to attain what was rightfully his, but he would not give up. And he would never forget the principles he believed in.
“You may want to consider a marriage,” Otis went on, a charging bull.
“I don’t want to get married. I have a fiancée,” James protested. Celeste, he thought. Her face was a pale shadow, smeared by the glamour and sickly sweet opulence of lies that choked him. His own words disgusted him. He sounded empty. He sounded fake.
“No one said anything about getting married, only considering it. You see, you’re an eligible bachelor of very high status. Many a Caytorean rich lady would like to sink her teeth into a trophy like yourself. If you were to show affection toward some of them, never quite promising anything, you may sway a whole lot of power and support in your direction.”
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 15
