The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  James listened, fascinated. He’d never expected something like this. Even if he’d not a heard a word of divination yet, he was glad for the advice Nigella gave him. It sounded true. It sounded right.

  “Now, fill this cup,” she told him again.

  Embarrassment wrapped him again. His muscles froze. A cold noose of debilitating numbness sneaked into his trousers, engulfing his loins. If his member ever felt paralyzed, it was today. It felt small and quiet, like a squirrel burrowed in its hole, waiting for the big predator to move on.

  Watching the bucktoothed woman stare him down shamelessly felt humiliating. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. Growing up with his mother only, he’d never had a father figure to tell him about life’s more interesting facets. And she had kept him cocooned in safety, away from many aspects of reality. Then, as deputy sheriff, he’d fought for justice. It had been black-and-white justice, a simple world of law and crime.

  He reached for the cup. His fingers brushed against the old wood. He wondered how many men before him had held that same cup. How many had spilled their seed and waited for Nigella to divine their future. The cup unmanned him.

  “I really can’t do that. Not yet. I need time.”

  She sighed. “All right, silly boy. But the sooner you come to your senses, the sooner I can help you.”

  James nodded. “I just need some time, that’s all.” He rubbed his hands nervously. “What do my spit and blood tell you?”

  Nigella shrugged. “Nothing much. Your future is a thunderstorm, all black and livid with lightning.”

  He craned his head to one side. “What does that mean?”

  She clapped her hands, startling him. “Oh, you expect a report on a piece of paper?”

  He mumbled dumbly.

  “It does not work that way. Life magic is difficult and complex. Seeing the future is a very tricky task. Nothing is ever certain. But now and then, there will be powerful leads. And if you’re smart, you will use them to your advantage. You will take these vague hints and turn them into a hard truth, and you’ll shape reality as you want it.”

  She leaned forward. “There’s little time. You must make your decisions soon.”

  James clenched his fists hard. “I will.”

  “Come back soon. And you’d better not be shy about it.”

  “I will do my best,” he promised. His first task was to stop being a virgin. That sounded easy. But it would also mean clawing off the last shred of decency he still had. What should he do? Produce bastards with poor village girls with broken teeth and lice in their hair? Substitute Celeste for prostitutes? What did that make him? Did his love mean nothing?

  But it had been so long. He rarely thought of Celeste anymore. She was just an excuse, a shield against his own desires, his true desires. She was a ghost of his old life, and he clung dearly, desperately trying to prove that he was better than the harsh world around him. But decency was not going to save his life.

  Perhaps the real test was immersing himself in the web of lies and treachery that surrounded him, but staying true to his principles. Perhaps that was the true ordeal. He had decided to become an emperor, even if he’d not really understood what it meant. He still did not. But it was bigger than anything he’d ever done in his life. It was not just about him anymore.

  Maybe he could still love Celeste, or love the idea she stood for, even if he let his lust take over his senses. Maybe he could make justice with his decisions, even if his body became a tool. He could live with that.

  And Rheanna. She would not flee his mind. Her smell clung to him like a second skin. She imbued his every pore. She was a backdrop to his thoughts and feelings. And the more she lingered there, the duller the pain of betrayal and self-loathing became. Perhaps the last obstacle was his false sense of morality.

  Emperors could not indulge in pity and childish dreams.

  He bade the witch farewell and left the cabin, thoughts swirling. The village of Pasey was located about half a day’s ride from Pain Daye, on the road to Goden and Monard. It was one of the dozens of communities supporting the trade in the area, focused on wool. The hills, a never-ending ripple that stretched everywhere, were crowned in trees and bubbling with white dots. Sheep, an army as large as those in books of history.

  James mounted his horse and headed back to the mansion. He was alone. He could not trust anyone, not even his gangly would-be squire. He still wasn’t sure if Timothy was a spy for one of the councillors. Probably not. He hoped.

  CHAPTER 21

  Amalia was touring her city. It was her second appearance since the night Calemore attacked her. While she had been away, Luke’s men had spun rumors so that it appeared she had never abated in her vigilance, visiting various city districts day after day, talking to ordinary people. Now that the swelling on her face had subsided, she could be seen again. People needed to see her, to be given hope.

  Her entourage was walking down Baker’s Lane, a wide paved road with sidewalks and colorful merchant shops boxed on both sides. Men and women had stopped in their business and were watching the empress come their way. She had chosen to go on foot; riding a horse would put them above the crowd’s heads. She wanted to be face-to-face with her people. They needed it.

  Gerald walked on her left. Edwin, his deputy, on the right. Agatha trailed a step behind, carrying two baskets of sweet bread rolls. Amalia would give those to children at intersections and in city squares. A token, some would even say a farce, but it was a gesture of goodwill that Roalas craved.

  Roalas had become a self-besieged city. It swarmed with people from the countryside who showed no intention of leaving the safety of its thick walls. Street corners were swarming with squatters, women and children who always looked filthy. In the first few days after they started appearing, Amalia had ordered city guards to disperse the crowds with cudgels, and then banned them from entering the city proper. Finally, when the pressure grew too great, she had allowed some of her people in, and with them, the feeling of despondence and fear.

  Her public display did help. People cheered her and gave her little gifts. They smiled at her and swore to endure any hardship. But there was worry behind their strained faces. Eighteen years ago, Roalas had faced near destruction before surrendering and becoming the capital of a new realm. Should the city fall again, no one promised such boons.

  But the city remembered. Most of the people in Roalas today had seen the rebel army led by her father threaten them with fire and sword. All of the elder citizens had been Caytoreans once, sworn to the High Council of Trade, if not in their souls, then in their bodies and work. And overnight, they had sworn allegiance to a stranger and let him lead them into an uncertain future. Without the gods and goddesses to give them hope. Just the raw reality of life.

  Roalas lived with that memory embedded in its cobbles and bricks. Even if a whole generation had been born since, it was an unsaid truth. Loyalty was merchandise here. You should never cling to it too dearly, since you might want to sell the next day, when the price got high enough.

  Amalia was aware of that. Somehow, her father had bought their loyalty with his own ideals and unwavering vision of freedom. He had given them back everything, and in the end, after all, despite everything, they had truly loved him. Roalas had seen one ruler after another come and take control of its citizens, from the mighty lords and rich merchants who would not dirty their shoes walking its winding streets to Feorans who had burned people for their faith. Then, one day, almost like rain washing away an age of filth, her father had come and cleansed their spirits with pure truth of what he believed in.

  He had won them over. And he’d made sure that their loyalty to him would never need to be questioned.

  But now it was. Now, there could be a war. The Eracians were wavering and threatening, not really sure what they wanted; the Caytoreans were playing their dirty political games, like they always had. Little had changed in the past several months, yet a pall of inevitable doom was settl
ing over the city like fine soot. It blackened everything.

  Amalia hated the thoughts that swirled inside her head. The thousands of refugees that crowded her capital were simple people. They had paid their taxes to the High Council one day, then to the war priests of the Feoran Movement the next, then to a lowborn conqueror after that. It made no difference. But they had Caytorean blood, Caytorean heritage. What would happen if the horrors of war stripped their souls naked? What would happen to her soldiers, most of whom had Eracian parents?

  She hated the idea of having a nation’s worth of simple human treachery confined in her city. She hated the gnawing doubt in the blackest recesses of her soul that tried to tell her that. It could not happen, she was trying to convince herself. Eighteen years was long enough to forge a national identity.

  It had to be.

  The Athesian army was hers. There was no doubt about that. But they had all been Adam’s men. Still, deep down, most of them were Eracians, just like her father. What would happen if she led them into war and lost? Would they stay here and protect her? Would they give their lives for her? Father’s and Mother’s mixed marriage had also served to unite the peoples of Athesia. But would that be enough? Would their shared dream survive the cruel reality?

  They reached the crossroads leading to Gray’s Cut and Smith’s Street. A pair of constables watched out for disturbances, keeping a small crowd of onlookers from approaching too close.

  Amalia stopped, pondering. The alley full of sooty shops or the butchers? Neither sounded too appealing to her, but the farther her steps took her away from the manse, the poorer the city’s districts became. With the curtain walls in sight behind the hedgehog of steep shingled rooftops and fat black chimneys, Roalas turned ugly and scarred. Many of the houses bore old, old marks of former fights and struggles, dating back two and three generations ago. Still, she must be here. They did not need her in the rich parts. The city’s elite stood firmly behind her—she hoped.

  One of the corner buildings was an abandoned temple. Not the old gods. A Feoran house of worship. Thieves had stolen the leaded glass and any other valuables long ago. Emperor Adam had purposefully ordered these temples left in their ruined state as a reminder to all. But then, she noticed a wreath of dried flowers laid at the steps leading into the chapel.

  “Get that cleaned,” she said quietly. A soldier in the retinue detached and went to remove the flowers. He lifted them in his gloved hand and stared stupidly, considering what to do now. Finally, he just tossed them into a gutter in the nearby alley.

  Only two days ago, they had caught and expelled a group of new Feoran worshippers. Amalia wondered where they had suddenly come from after lying in wait for two decades, but she knew that faith was like the stretch marks on a mother’s belly. They got bigger or smaller, or paler or darker, but they never quite went away.

  She had to be careful. Luke would have to find all sources of opposition budding in the city, rich and poor and religious. She had to make sure there were no sectarian or national crimes, no old scores being settled, no ancient hates or vendettas brought to life. She didn’t quite know how to achieve that. And she didn’t know what to do with the thousands of refugees cramming Roalas.

  Amalia hated her indecision. She just could not bring herself to do what she felt she ought to. Roalas should be empty of civilians. It should be a battle keep, teeming with soldiers. Her legions should be parked around the city, waiting, ready to strike. But that would mean leaving the rest of Athesia at the mercy of the other realms. She could not allow that.

  Army scouts reported plenty of activity on all borders. The Eracians were the least of her worries, for now, it seemed. They shuffled their troops out of the barracks and marched them from one garrison to another, but they had made no move against Athesia yet. They probably didn’t have sufficient manpower to scale an attack. Or the monarch was just waiting to see what success his envoy would have; he still hadn’t arrived in the city, or at the very least, announced himself to Amalia.

  The Caytoreans were a much bigger threat. Luckily, they were busy trying to outsmart one another. The plague of false heirs had turned Caytor into a political battlefield. Each of the factions wanted their impostor to be the favorite champion. The situation felt like the early beginning of civil war. For Caytor, that would mean bribes, business merges, financial takeovers, some assassinations, and some private armies flexing their muscles. Amalia did not want to know what would happen if they chose to unite their efforts. One thing was sure, they were trying to ignore her for now. But there was time. There was still time.

  In the south, there was an alarming flood of reports of military activity. After eighteen years of silence, the Parusites were stirring. Perhaps they were truly testing her resolve. It was to be expected. Her father had nearly destroyed them. King Sergei must have a deep grudge against Athesia. But the Sixth Legion could handle the Parusites if they decided to cause any trouble, she thought. The Parusite king would not dare risk his realm again to pride and folly. Not after what had happened to them the last time.

  War seemed more real than ever. And yet, everyone pretended as if nothing was happening. Trade continued. And with trade came hope. Everyone believed that one day, the tension would just evaporate and things would go back to the way they always were.

  Amalia believed she still had the initiative. The hostages were still a valuable bargaining tool. The Eracians would wait for her next move. She just hoped the High Council in Eybalen would make an official statement. So far, they had kept quiet. The only truly unaccounted element were her southern neighbors. She worried, but she had too few definite leads to make any decisions.

  Well, if she had to fight Parus, she wanted the other two realms allied behind her. Ironically, she could undo all of their opposition so easily. She just had to surrender to their terms. Yield. Let the hostages go. Extend a friendly hand. But she could not.

  She just could not.

  Surrender meant the death of Athesia. There might not be any bloodshed, but over time, the realm would simply vanish. It would be swallowed by hard trade, made insignificant. Eracia and Caytor would impoverish her. Athesia had to remain a benevolent threat, had to remain the mortal danger, so that Eracia and Caytor could never be sure if war might break out on the morrow. Or worse, if Athesia decided to ally with just one of the realms. Athesia had to remain the hated counterbalance to their historical animosity, a cold reminder that peace and prosperity was her doing, her whim, a gift that could be snatched away any moment. A reminder of the delicate balance that existed because Athesia existed.

  The narrow alleys got crowded. The skyline vanished, became a spiderweb of ropes sagging with washed clothes strung between buildings. A large press of people was congregated in one of the squares, which branched off into a dozen even narrower lanes. On the battlements, bored soldiers stood and watched the procession.

  Citizens waved at her. Women raised their small children, offering them as a kind of gift, waiting for the empress to touch them. It was a somewhat eerie display, with large-sized toddlers wobbling in their mothers’ arms, heads lolling and eyes wandering, focusing on things only babies found interesting. A few looked at her with vicious intensity.

  Amalia wore her happy face, smiling. She tried to let mirth touch her eyes. People could sense fraud easily. There was no place for dishonesty here. These people were her subjects, even if the Athesian regency took a form unlike any other in the realms.

  Agatha was busy handing out the sweet breads. Not too quickly.

  Gerald walked at her left side so close she could smell him, a haunted look on his face. He had still not recovered from Calemore’s attack. He had lost weight. And his eyes were rimmed with dark circles of fatigue and remorse. She insisted that he keep himself in shape, because she needed him clearheaded and strong, but he would not listen. He had barricaded his soul behind grief and rehearsed what-if death scenes in his head.

  Amalia looked at him when he didn’t notice. He wa
s a handsome man. He had a gruff quality about him that made her excited. But she would not dare talk to him. It would be irresponsible. She could not put him in a difficult situation where he must choose between Empress Amalia and just Amalia. It would not be fair, to him and to the entire realm.

  As an empress, she ought to be aiming higher, for princes.

  The prospect of courting one of the rival faction heirs sounded crazy and alien to her. Perhaps it was her unusual, not-so-strict, upbringing. Perhaps it was the fact that neither her father nor mother had cared about lineage or etiquette. She could not believe in a formal marriage.

  But it would be a revolution of a sorts. Despite an almost common culture, the people of the realms did not mix well. They had the same looks, same language, very similar customs, they prayed to the same gods—those who did anyway—but they never quite married into their separate nations. Merging the powers of the noble houses of Eracia with the feudal lines of Parus and the rich families of Caytor sounded like a wild fantasy. There had been a few isolated cases, but nothing major.

  Perhaps it was the heritage of countless generations of war that had undone any attempts at bringing the nations closer. After all, Eracia and Caytor only now enjoyed their first reign of peace in centuries. Perhaps something large and monumental had happened with the creation of Athesia. Perhaps it was time for a change.

  Gerald sensed her stare. He turned toward her. She averted her eyes, feigning interest in her subjects. She could not imagine herself marrying someone for power. It sounded crazy. Her parents had really loved each other. She could not bear the thought of substituting love for duty.

  Something yellow arced out of the crowd.

  It flew and hit her in the shoulder.