He turned Marusya around and led back toward the city. Boris’s men spread about, their parade lances erect, flags hanging from blunted tops. Well, if needed, those staves could still clear a crowd at full gallop.
The scenes of the city were a colorful blur, his mind too preoccupied to notice any details. Maybe there were more people in the streets than usual, and maybe they were looking at him more favorably now. He didn’t really know. He had released those men because it was the right thing to do.
Theo waited for him outside the palace stables. The old man dictated a brutal agenda, and he was never daunted by the challenges of his duty. “Your Highness,” he spoke in his lazy voice, “Under-Patriarch Evgeny begs your audience.”
Sergei dismounted and handed the reins to Matvey. The clergy was simply refusing to budge. He would never be rid of them until he complied with their wishes, it seemed.
“I shall see him in an hour.” He acquiesced wearily.
Sergei felt tempted to let the priest petition him in the court room, but he thought it would be smarter to talk to him in private so he could later deny any demand the clergy made of him. He was not willing to agree to having the patriarchs raise their own holy army with only a loose affiliation to the Crown. That would be risky. He could not let them have it, at least not until he defeated Amalia.
For a moment, he wanted to see Lady Lisa and talk to her, but she had grown distant after learning the truth of her daughter’s return. Still, relentlessly, she pushed for peace and reconciliation. Sasha’s defeat was a great opportunity for that. Then again, honor called for revenge. The failure in Ecol was a tarnish on his image. Worse, it had much wider consequences than his hurt pride. Any weakness on his behalf was a signal for the Eracians, Caytoreans, nomads, and the tribes in the southern desert to try their luck against him, especially while he was weakened and distracted.
One great battle had gotten him rid of one of Adam’s offspring. Perhaps if he made another attempt, he could achieve Amalia’s death. Then, it would really be over. But his forces were stretched thin. If he moved any more Red Caps north, he risked leaving the countryside too exposed. He didn’t have enough forces to maintain order as well as fight a war, it seemed. Maybe he should muster his lords again.
Sergei threw his gloves on the table and plopped into a soft, massive chair in one of the private studies. Used to be Amalia’s, he thought. The corridor walls outside were scarred with deep gouges, as if someone had raked them with giant claws. A sign of a battle, but he could not think of any way an ax or a sword could make those marks.
Timur brought him refreshments, and Genrik sat behind the other desk, ready to scribble truths. Theo took his place next to him. Sergei felt talking to the priests was an entirely Parusite affair, but he wanted the old adviser around, because he was certain Theo would put the good of the city and the realm before anything else. He needed a clear, impartial mind in this meeting.
Soon thereafter, the lardy, massive torso of Under-Patriarch Evgeny squeezed through the doorframe amid much huffing. Sergei found it fascinating how obese people breathed. They would often make several wheezing notes at the same time, as if they had several throats or noses fighting for air.
This was as private as he would allow himself to be with the priest. His stern upbringing was tugging at his spine, trying to make him bend in subservience and fear. Only he could not summon the old feelings of reverence for the patriarchs anymore.
“Your Holiness,” Sergei said.
“Your Highness,” the priest returned, out of breath. Timur politely placed a bowl of pear compote in front of the other man.
Sergei sampled his lizard tails and wine. “You wished to see me. I must presume it is urgent?”
Evgeny nodded, his neck wobbling like a gelled eel pie. “Indeed. I believe I must direct your attention to the presence of a holy man named Gavril at the outskirts of Keron.”
Sergei paused in midbite and put the sugared cube down. No pleasantries. This was not usually how the fat man went about his business. Normally, he would intone a few vague sayings, speak about morality and trying times, then try to weed cooperation from him. To be so blunt and direct meant he was more distressed than the stretched skin on his jowls let show.
Sergei had tried to ignore the story of a holy lunatic for a while now, hoping it would just go away. But almost like a spot of mold on a wall, it had blistered wider and bigger. He did not have reliable information on the man’s activities and intentions, but he seemed to be amassing a large force of followers. In itself, some extra righteousness in this godless land was not a bad thing, but the magnitude of the phenomenon worried Sergei.
Back home, he would have sent one of his dukes and his cavalry to scatter the rabble and hang the leaders. Crazy would-be prophets were nothing new. He remembered the stories of his youth. Almost every summer, there would be a rumor of some peasant getting divine blessing from the gods and goddesses. If the priests showed no interest in taking them away to a temple, they would usually end up hanging from a tree branch after their preachings turned too bitter for the locals or when they started inciting against the nobles.
There was not a wealthy child in Parus who hadn’t been told the tale of Mad Monk Fyodor, who had seduced Queen Sveta with his mystic powers. Not even his death had really dispelled the myth among the commoners. This Gavril might keep his influence among the small folk, but the background story was starkly similar.
Twenty years ago, the realms shook when a godless man came and broke all the rules. I do not need a holy man doing the same thing now. “Should I be concerned?”
Evgeny slurped from his own goblet. “I have met this holy man.”
Sergei did not like that. He had assumed the priests would be interested in anyone challenging their authority on religion, but he had not expected Evgeny to take a personal interest. “Is he loyal to the Crown?”
The patriarch smiled faintly, as if the very question was blasphemy made by an unknowing child. “When faith shines brightly in one’s heart, even the sun’s glare is muted. Can we weigh one’s loyalty to their ruler against one’s love for the gods and goddesses?”
Yes, we can, Sergei thought. “I will not tolerate any insurrection in Athesia. For whatever reason.”
Evgeny ahemed, and helped himself to more compote. “I believe this holy man has noble intentions.”
Sergei waited. He did not want to appear eager or concerned. He looked at Genrik and noticed the scribe was waiting, pen poised like a headsman’s blade. “Noble and loyal intentions?”
The priest tapped a silver spoon against his front teeth. “Gavril wishes to see faith prosper in the realms. That is all. He seeks unity among all the people of the realms. After all, we might disagree in our mundane matters, but we are all equal before the gods and goddesses. I am convinced Gavril is an honest man, and he may be blessed.”
“What is the purpose of our meeting, Your Holiness?” Sergei pressed.
“Gavril wishes to petition you, my king. He seeks audience with you.”
Sergei didn’t like this. Instantly, some deep instinct inside him revolted. It wasn’t quite fear that coursed through his veins, more sort of a feeling of unease, the kind you have when there’s a niggling thought picking at your conscience, vague and persistent.
“Your Highness, may I interject?” Theo piped in. When Sergei said nothing, the old man continued. “It would be prudent if you met this Gavril person. As all reports indicate, he has gathered almost thirty thousand souls at his camp outside Keron. That alone is reason enough to talk to him, if only because he commands a force that dwarfs the nearby town. If you can learn of his intentions, that might help you make the right decision.”
Yes, anyone with the ability to muster a following that large in just a few months should not be dismissed lightly, Sergei thought. If the holy man continued unchecked, his righteous army could grow to frightening proportions. Maybe Gavril had innocent intentions. That could happen. But they might get big
ger and less innocent as his force grew.
Sergei wished he had time to ponder life’s mysteries, to wonder how some nameless pilgrim could become a pivot of so much faith and devotion. But he was too weary to battle philosophy. Gavril could be an ally, and that would be an easy solution to his problems. Or Gavril could be an enemy, and he would have to contend with thirty thousand men who gave him no loyalty.
Athesia was a curse. A terrible curse.
If spy reports were true, three out of every five trade caravans headed for Keron would stop at the farmland outside the town, selling their goods to this strange congregation. There was a steady trickle of people coming from the Safe Territories, drawn to the rumor of holiness budding in Athesia. Even the locals seemed to be attracted. Sergei was losing his own subjects to the faith of a single man, who had not existed just a summer back.
Amalia might be fighting with sword and spear, but at least she had some claim over this land. He could understand and appreciate her effort. He could not grasp what Gavril signified. Or why the priests would throw their support behind him.
Perhaps he was one of their own. A patriarch pretending to be a rogue holy man. Perhaps this was their way of getting their demands answered. This was how they secured gold for the temples and shrines, and fodder for their combat clergy. This could all be a ruse.
He wanted to consult with Lady Lisa. Peace. She would urge for peace, as always. Compromise itched more than saddle sores, it seemed. Brave men compromised, and itched. Instead of guessing what the holy man wants, why not ask him? It sounded simple.
Emperor Adam must be cackling in his grave. “All right. I will meet this Gavril.”
Evgeny wiped his hand on a silk napkin, rubbing pear juice off his rings. “The gods and goddesses be praised. I shall convey your message, Your Highness.”
“I will go to Keron myself,” he added. He had to see this holy man’s camp for himself.
For a moment, Sergei did not quite feel like a king. More like a prisoner, awaiting his sentence. Not that different from the Athesian soldiers he had freed earlier. He was trapped in this forsaken city.
CHAPTER 7
“Sheldon, come inside!” Nigella shouted, her voice shrill.
“But Mom,” her son pleaded. He was lying prone on the grass, almost nose to wing with a large yellow butterfly. The boy was completely oblivious to the terror in Marlheim, but could she blame him?
“Sheldon, right now,” she grated.
He oofed but complied, getting up somewhat dramatically and dashing for the interior of her cottage. That left her alone to face the soldiers approaching her home.
Running away was not an option.
Almost overnight, the town had been overrun by Calemore’s troops. They had poured over the valleys and hills like a tide. At first, she had almost mistaken their white forms for sheep, thousands of them, rolling over the curves and creases of the land. They had converged on Marlheim from all directions and then entered the town without much fanfare. The few lucky and prudent citizens had fled. The rest had burned.
From what little Nigella knew about wars, soldiers would usually fight, then rape and loot, get drunk and wild on the success of their conquest. They would take time destroying and defacing and humiliating the symbols of their enemy and their resistance. They would carefully pick among the women and take them for playthings.
Not this lot. Not Calemore’s soldiers. They behaved as if there was no joy in their task. Almost as if they were compelled to kill the people of the realm, burdened with a grim objective that was tedious and long and unrewarding, almost as if the fall of Marlheim meant nothing to them.
Nigella would have fled, but she remembered Calemore’s stern advice.
Do not run.
His words did nothing to alleviate her fear. Worst of all, her own premonition had failed her. She had sensed nothing of this kind coming, read nothing in The Book of Lost Words that would have indicated there was a disaster approaching. Maybe, maybe because there was no disaster. Maybe because she was safe.
That did nothing for the random spasms in her belly.
A veil of smoke rose behind the small group of Naum men trudging up the dirt track, curling in broken, sooty fingers, bending this and that way, carried by the summer wind. Marlheim gaped like a festered wound, black, filthy, cracked wide open, and swarming with maggots. Fires had hopped between buildings and whipped across the nearby pastures, leaving charred ruins. Unconcerned by the destruction, the Naum forces camped all around the burned city. Yet more armies were streaming by, some following the roads, others blazing across the green fields, leaving a scarred land in their path.
She had been surprised to glimpse women in that lot. Well, she had expected whores to travel with the soldiers. But the women packed in the backs of wagons and sleds did not seem to be there just for fucking. They had babies and small children, and the drays bulged with home goods and items, the kinds of things pilgrims would carry with them.
Other than observing the quick, brutal fall of Marlheim, she had kept her eyes away from the town. She did not want to witness atrocities, did not want to remember any grisly detail that might haunt her dreams. She needed her conscience clear so she could plan her future.
Only recently, she had happily wondered if she and Calemore might end up together one day. It had been a silly fantasy, a crazy fantasy, but he seemed to like her, and almost respect her, and he sure valued her advice and her cooking. That had to mean something. Her experience with men was drenched in disappointment, but she felt there was something genuine growing between the White Witch and her.
The sight of destruction had warped the happy image she carried in her head.
Still, he cared for her. After all, he had warned her of the impeding attack and promised help. No other man had ever done anything like that.
Nigella stood, palms pressed against her stomach, feeling the muscles fire off with uncontrolled terror. She wished she could be calm. She wished she could face these Naum men bravely. But there was a giant cold fist crushing her chest, making her breathing rapid and short. Calemore had promised she and her son would be safe, but his words felt empty now. Like always, she had given her heart to a man and gotten betrayed, like the fool she was.
Do not run.
There were seven men coming toward her, spread about like birds in flight, arms swinging wide of their belts laden with pouches, knives, and swords. They looked eerie dressed all in white leathers and furs and skins, a pale mockery of their master.
Nigella swallowed. A painful lump rolled down her throat, making a thick noise in her ears. The men stopped ten paces away. A respectful distance, not meant to alarm her, she dared to hope. Her fingers curled round the fabric of her dress.
The man in the center was wearing a sleeveless jerkin of ivory-colored fur. His ruddy, sun-whipped skin was covered in sweat, dripping. He spread his arms, palms up.
Nigella did not know what to do. She waited, carefully watching him.
He moved forward, going down on one knee. She took an involuntary step back, a cool hiss tickling her teeth.
Nothing happened. The man remained kneeling, arms spread.
“I do not understand,” she heard herself say, a thin whisper, barely audible.
The warrior blinked, but there was no comprehension on his face. He did not speak Continental. Her gut clenched. What would happen now? She felt dizzy. She wanted to collapse on the ground and cry, but she willed herself to remain standing.
“I do not understand,” she repeated, pleading.
The man frowned, then pointed behind him and to the left, toward Marlheim. He waited until she glimpsed in the direction of the town; then he made a palm-down gesture. He pointed toward her, palm-up gesture, both hands.
Nigella rubbed her cheek. It was wet with a tear. “Safety? Am I safe?”
Again, the Naum man pointed at her, then clasped his hands together. Around him, the other six warriors did the same. Her eyes flitted left and right
, seeking danger in their movements. But there was no threat there. They tried to appear friendly, she realized. Their gestures were slow, deliberate. A choked gurgle of panicked relief bubbled up in her throat.
The ruddy-skinned leader crooked his thick finger back at himself. He patted the ground in front of him. Nigella was desperately trying to understand his message. But symbolism was a slippery thing. She knew nothing about the Naum civilization.
“Did Calemore send you?” she asked.
The name of her lover did invoke a reaction. Their faces contorted, emotions twitching their rugged, blistered cheeks. She thought she saw fear, deep fear in their eyes, mirroring her own. That sent another blob of relief up her gullet.
“Calemore,” the chief warrior repeated, but he said it differently, letters hard and emphasized.
Nigella was glad they could speak, even if they didn’t know her language. It convinced her they might find a way to communicate somehow, convinced her a little that these were just ordinary people facing her. From another land, from another culture, still just men.
“Are you here to protect me?” she chirped.
Ruddy lowered his face to the ground. “Calemore,” he intoned against the gravel. His six did the same thing. The witch’s name reverberated around her, even as Marlheim kept burning in the background, a black haze clotting the sky.
The man straightened. He repeated his earlier gestures, palms up and down, hands clasped. She thought she understood the gist of it. Risking everything, she gave a small nod. I hope nodding is a good thing in Naum.
As if to affirm her own body language, the warrior went through the sequence of his motions one more time, then bobbed his hairy cleft chin up and down. Nod, that was good.
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 7
