The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Amalia smiled sadly. If there were one thing she’d done well in this war, it was the Fuckers. But then, she hadn’t really done anything. And even the quirky name was not her invention. Master Reese had done all of the smart work.

  Closer still, jammed in between the thick walls and the Imperial Manse, was the seething, throbbing heart of Roalas, thousands of narrow streets and stone houses and laundry lines and soot and bird droppings. People moved down the tightly packed lanes in lethargic columns, dejected, terrified, dazed, the yoke of war pulling on their scrawny necks. Life bustled as only life could, but it was strained. Too little trade, too much violence. There wasn’t a day without at least a dozen people being hanged for theft. There wasn’t a day without fire breaking out. Former Eracians and Caytoreans had all of a sudden remembered their former nationalities. Relations were becoming strained. Luke’s forces unearthed spies and saboteurs everywhere. Arson, rape, treachery, her rule had been reduced to petty crimes and despair.

  Amalia wondered if she were ever meant to rule Athesia. Perhaps James would do a better job. Maybe she should surrender Roalas to him. Maybe she was just a stupid child bringing ruin to her people. Even her commanders mocked her. She was certain that they were conspiring against her.

  But she had not expected Gerald to be like that. Not him. It hurt.

  “Explain,” she said.

  Gerald swallowed. “You must not dismiss your half brother lightly, Your Highness.”

  Amalia snorted. “It’s not about the impostor. It never was. He’s an instrument in the hands of the High Council, nothing more. He’s meaningless. But he stands for what the Caytoreans want. If I acknowledge the legitimacy of his claim, we lose.”

  “Our primary concern is the war with the Parusites. Politics can wait.”

  “I think Theodore might be working for the Parusites,” she said suddenly, and he looked shocked. It must be the potions. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “You need to rest, Your Highness,” he spoke softly. “The old man has seen a lot of grief in his life. He’s lived under the councillors and their constant scheming, through the scourge of the Feorans, your father’s siege and his brilliant rule, and now he’s learned to adapt to your own style. If anything, the man’s loyal to this city, to the idea he represents. He might sound like a coward sometimes, but he only has the best interest of Roalas in his heart.”

  Amalia closed her eyes. Gerald rarely ever called her Amalia, despite her insistence. He tried, but then lapsed back to using official titles. His awkwardly distant manner reminded her that she had never really had any true friends. She had never really had anyone to confide in. Agatha was her maid, but she was not her friend.

  “Did you talk to the mother-empress, Your Highness?” Gerald asked, his tone desperate.

  Amalia sighed. “My mother believes in peace. She thinks this conflict can be solved by simply laying down the swords and negotiating a favorable truce. But she’s wrong. This war is about our survival as a nation, as a realm. Our neighbors will not accept us until they are beaten into submission.”

  “Your Highness,” he chirped dryly.

  “I want you to call me Amalia,” she reminded him for the hundredth time.

  “As you wish, Your…Amalia.” His tone was dry, formal now.

  She turned to face him again. He really was a handsome, rugged man. But he had never shown her any affection. Except…except when she’d been attacked by the Pum’be. He had held her close. And today. He had kissed her. Well, she had ordered him to, but still…

  She wished she could have some time to get to know him. Not as the commander of the City Guard, captain of Roalas, but as Gerald, a person, a man. She wished she could lay aside her imperial mask and be just a simple girl for once in her life. She wanted to be able to talk to Gerald, really talk, like those servant girls did with cooks and stableboys and smiths. She yearned for affection and friendship and love.

  No, she could not love him. How could she love someone she might send to his death the next day? He was her father’s man, loyal to the death. He had shared her father’s fears and doubts. And now, he shared hers. But he would have done the same if James were living in Roalas and she were the exiled princess trying to win back her country. Gerald was a shadow to her life. He saw what few other people could, her fears, her doubts, her indecision. Only her little diary held more secrets. And then, she realized she hadn’t written anything new in more than a week. There was nothing to write down except the empty blackness of her soul.

  Her finger touched the small book on the polished table. Idly, she pushed it around.

  Amalia realized she was being a fool. How could she think Gerald would conspire against her? He was the one person who truly cared about her. And she had betrayed his trust. She could see that now. His face was etched with deep pain.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, there is. I’m sorry.” She tottered to the side of her bed and picked up the fake bloodstaff. It was a token, but it still mattered. She extended her arm. “Here. Officially, you’re the ruler now. Do what is necessary.”

  Gerald walked to her side. He put his big hands on her upper arms, stroking softly. She shivered from his touch.

  “Your Highness, I can’t do that. Please.”

  “I need a friend,” she whispered.

  “I am your friend. Forever,” he blurted.

  “Do you think I’m a bad ruler?” She was crying now, a tear rolling down her cheek.

  Gerald grimaced. “I think you’re a great ruler. You’re very brave. I can’t imagine anyone doing it better than you. We are facing dreadful obstacles, but we will overcome them.”

  Was he being sincere, or did his words become the truth he believed in the moment he uttered them? He did not know. He just knew that he would perform his duty. He was sworn to her, even if it meant his own death.

  “I thought I knew war from my father’s teachings, but I don’t,” she sobbed. “And the book. I never read the book.”

  “It’s all right,” he whispered and hugged her. He didn’t really know what that book was.

  “Please help me,” she said.

  “Yes, I will, Your Highness…Amalia.” He knew what he had to do.

  There was a polite knock at the door. The two of them jumped apart. Amalia smoothed her gown. Gerald rubbed his face. He laid a hand on his sword. She nodded.

  “Enter,” he boomed.

  The three bodyguards entered, followed by Lieutenant Edwin. “Your Highness. Sir.” He bowed curtly. “Bad news.”

  Gerald realized he was still standing too close to Amalia. He casually stepped away. “What is it?”

  “That son-of-a-whore Driscoll—pardon my language, Your Highness—has defected.”

  Gerald frowned. “Lieutenant-Commander Driscoll?”

  Edwin pressed his lips, rolling spit, but the carpets were too expensive for that, so he swallowed it noisily. “Commander Driscoll, now.”

  Gerald nodded. Yes, Wilbur was dead, assassinated. “Doesn’t he have a wife in the city?”

  “I’ll have a chat with her.”

  “No, you don’t. I’ll take care of this.” He turned toward Amalia. There was so much more he wanted to tell her, so much to talk about. But the moment was gone. She had steeled her face. She was the angry, petulant ruler of Athesia, with a personal grudge against the world. “Your Highness.” He excused himself.

  The three female royal guardians took their positions in the chamber. Amalia feigned innocence, but they could tell something had happened. Gerald did not miss the silent chatter. He pretended to inspect their gear and readiness, nodded once in approval, and left.

  Outside the chamber, the mother-empress waited, her white gown dappled with patches of color from the lead glass panes in the tall, narrow window, an arrow slit turned decorative. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, patient, knowing. She smiled softly at Gerald.
r />   “What now?” Edwin insisted, not very tactful, like his usual self.

  Gerald rubbed his neck, goading fresh blood into his tired brain. Before his death, Emperor Adam had been the supreme ruler of all Athesian legions. Amalia had left that rank vacant, as a not-so-subtle incentive to her commanders, hoping to squeeze extra loyalty from them. It did not seem to have worked. And now, it could not.

  Still, Athesia needed a general, someone to take command of the remaining troops. Sadly, he felt there was no one more suitable than him. All of the high-ranking officers had been assassinated. Those few who remained might have more experience, but they were dispersed, isolated, leading troops just as unfit as his own watchmen, seeking guidance and support that never would come. Adam’s death had left Athesia without its war leader.

  Deep down, Gerald feared his own arrogance and ineptitude. Did he dare step into the shoes of the greatest military mind in known history? Did he dare presume that much?

  “You will do well, Commander,” Lisa said, reading his mind.

  Edwin frowned, looking confused. Gerald knew his deputy; he just wanted to get rid of some traitors.

  I’m a city boy. I’ve never seen war before. What can I do? Gerald didn’t know what to say.

  “Take care of my daughter. Keep her safe. Help her.” She moved toward the door to her shared chamber.

  Gerald felt the heavy weight of responsibility crush his chest. He sighed and muttered bravely, “I will, my lady.” He couldn’t stand her compassionate, too-wise stare any longer. With a curt bow, he fled, Edwin trailing after him, asking questions.

  Councillor Stephan realized that things had really gotten serious the moment they locked him up. The moment they locked all of them up. Prior to the siege, they had been allowed to wander almost freely in the guest wing of the palace, go outside into the gardens, enjoy the sunshine, even fence for sport. But not any longer.

  They were prisoners now.

  The atmosphere among the Eracians and Caytoreans was not pretty. You could barely stand your own family for that long confined in one place, let alone total strangers, all of whom thought themselves the cream of society but farted like the commonest commoner.

  His one friend was Duke Vincent, the grizzled, bitter Eracian noble. They played chess every day, each one imagining those were the divisions of troops they shuffled across the battlefield, dealing deadly blows to their ancient foe. They didn’t talk much, except to revive their old bet.

  Today, they were doing just the opposite—talking, not really playing. On the table before them, all of the figures were arrayed in an intricate pattern, but the checkerboard was gone. They were simulating the battlefield raging outside. In the center, black pieces stood for Roalas and her forces. Bunches of white figures on all sides were the siege lines as they imagined them.

  “What next, do you think?” Stephan asked. “A hundred gold.”

  The crowd muttered its share of comments. Men, women who had little else to do but join this friendly banter.

  Duke Vincent grunted. He had lost three hundred gold coins, and his confidence was slipping. He genuinely believed he would lose a thousand coins by the end of the year. It was not the financial loss that worried him; it was his pride at stake. Not that he would not like to be gone from this prison like the rest of them.

  “All right, you slimy Caytorean money-grubber.”

  Someone chuckled. It was William, and he seemed to be mildly drunk already.

  Stephan took a piece of paper and wrote the sum down. Forgetfulness was such a common occurrence when money was discussed. “Your bet, old man?”

  “She will sally forth to the east. Try to break into Caytor.”

  The councillor rubbed his chin. His suspicion had proved correct again. The old fart was so predictable. But as much as Stephan liked squeezing coin from him, he liked the mental games even more. They gave him an intimate glimpse into how his enemy thought. Knowing the thoughts and feelings of every Eracian in the hall meant knowing what they might try next year. And this knowledge was power. He would bet the price of commodities against political winds. He would gamble his luck against the mood of the rival nobility and their war strategies. No spy had ever had such easy access to such private information. It was a ruby mine of opportunity.

  “No, she won’t try to break the siege at all. We are outnumbered here. She will wait for the winter. The Parusites will suffer in the snow and hail. Why waste your men in battle when you can let the elements do all the hard work for you?”

  Duke Vincent was not pleased. Stephan could easily guess the thoughts festering in his old head. The duke was already envisioning himself rotting another half year in this place. The moment Stephan said it, it sounded true.

  Lady Silvia drifted by. She nodded at Stephan. He nodded back. Well, not all relations were that tense. Sometimes, proximity forced friendships. Bedding an Eracian countess made him feel rather sophisticated. She was also supposed to be a distant cousin of the monarch, which made the situation even more exciting.

  “I wonder where Blake is,” Vincent whispered, distracting him. Once again, without any warning, the old man swung into his foul, depressing mood. He had supposedly disowned the boy, but he had never really stopped caring. “He must be a commander of a five.”

  “They call them legions here,” Stephan corrected him. Everyone knew the list of imprisoned nobles. If Vincent’s son really cared, he would have come to visit his father. But it had been eighteen years. He was probably retired. He may not even be in Roalas.

  Stephan looked behind him, at the retreating shape of Countess Silvia. Well, tonight, perhaps, if she did not fake one of her headaches or menses.

  The big double door of the common guest hall opened. A weary, dangerous-looking man stepped in. He did not bother with pleasantries. Commander Gerald of the City Guard, Stephan realized, and he looked angry. The activity in the room slowed down. Were they going home? Or perhaps to the chopping blocks? There always was the faintest doubt that you may have left too many enemies behind or displeased your superiors, and they could be steering your destiny now, holding your life in their hand and squeezing hard. His letter had gone unanswered so far.

  Gerald pointed at Stephan and wagged a finger. Come here, his gesture said.

  “Excuse me, Vince,” he said and rose. He never used any titles; he knew the slight insult irritated the old man.

  “Commander,” Stephan greeted curtly.

  “Walk with me,” he said and led him away, down several corridors and into the gardens. Not the Garden of Joy, but a smaller, secluded yard, where they could talk in private. The man walked stooped, as if he were very tired, but kept a quick pace. He didn’t bother waiting for Stephan, knowing the councillor would follow. Half a dozen burly royal guards around him made sure he did.

  Gerald came to a sudden stop. He was standing in a patch of wet grass, his boots staining. “How would you like to see your riches increased tenfold?” It was a very direct question.

  The air smelled sharp. Stephan let his mind work out a proper answer before opening his mouth. “In return for?”

  Commander Gerald cracked his knuckles. “Total alliance, shared borders, shared profits. The council pledges its unanimous support for Athesia, led by Empress Amalia. You get rid of the impostors and send thirty thousand men against the Parusites. You threaten war if they do not retreat back to their realm.” Gerald waited to see if the offer had sunk in. “You own the exclusive rights on prices and taxes. Your own guild and businesses enjoy tax free trade. No road taxes, no waiting at the city gates. Embassies of your choosing anywhere. The right of crossing for your private army. A levy of five thousand Athesian troops, at your disposal for one month every year.”

  Stephan nodded. “Are you sure you’re not a politician, Commander?”

  Gerald grimaced, displeased. “One more smarmy remark and I’ll grind your teeth to powder. Save your humor for the rest of them. One chance. And you’ll give me your answer now.” Amali
a wanted to marry Ludwig? Well, he would not allow that. He could not allow that.

  “I can’t promise I’ll manage to persuade the house,” the councillor said.

  “How you do your magic is entirely up to you. But if you do agree, I want that army relieving Keron before the year’s end. And I want one hundred thousand gold ransom for every Caytorean held here as credit funds, no interest, for ten years, in Eybalen banks only.”

  “I’ll need some help getting the message through,” Stephan spoke, the plan unraveling in his head.

  “Tell me what you need,” Gerald said. “And not a word to anyone.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The last time he’d traveled across Caytor, there had been a war. Now, he was traveling across Caytor, and again there was a war. It felt absurd.

  His little unlikely troupe followed the West Road, sidestepping into the grassy plains to let army columns past, dusty, tired, thundering to engage in battle. Where to, Ewan wondered. But people with the sunset beating against their backs were not too forward with information.

  Slowly, like squeezing an unripe lemon, he learned what little he could from rumors in roadside inns, from bards and drunkards and bored soldiers who liked to brag about battles they had never fought.

  Most of those coming inland were refugees, a flood of them, Athesians, fleeing the Parusite invasion. Most of them had some Caytorean blood and now, all of a sudden, felt dearly patriotic once again. Others just wanted to save their lives. The Parusites were besieging this new realm on all fronts, pressing hard. The Athesian army was in ruins. They said Adam the Godless was dead. They said his daughter was dead. They said the old gods were taking revenge against infidels.

  He could not easily tell truth from lie, but almost everyone agreed about these southern pirates ravaging their homes. They just weren’t people of the realms. They were strangers. They had come in ships around the rocky shores of the Velvet Sea and landed in a tempest of death and destruction.