The White Witch and his vast army had finally arrived.
The threat of their attack was immense. So huge that few people could really comprehend it. Even she did not dare contemplate the facts too deeply, lest they shatter her resolve utterly. A host of hundreds of thousands was gathering just a week away, getting bigger by the day, with an endless stream of new troops arriving every sunset. The Athesian scouts had watched from a safe distance, lips moving until they lost count, confused, dazed. No one really understood what would happen now.
Ecol had become her final bastion, a blister of defiance on the map of her failures. She could keep fighting and losing, or she could do the sensible thing: throw away her honor and bend knee. Make peace.
At least I have not been completely defeated this time, she thought. Her fight against the Red Caps had ended in a bloody draw. She had managed that much at least, enough to save face. Or rather, her half brother had. She could not claim James’s Last Stand as her own victory.
Free Athesia, the parts still under her control were coming apart, savaged like a lamb attacked by a pack of wolves. Bands of brigands were prowling the countryside, preying on travelers and convoys and the displaced small folk. But any man sent to fight the local insurgence meant one less soldier to face the Naum threat.
She just had to choose.
Amalia noticed the princess was limping, and yet she had chosen to walk. So the rumors about her injury were true. She had to admire the king’s sister. She was everything Amalia was not. Tough, brave, a real fighter. She would not cry when someone intruded in her bedroom; she would try to kill the trespasser.
This meeting was just a necessary formality, she knew, a ceremony that had to be seen and remembered. The officials had spent the last few days drafting the final agreement, with its little details. There would be no persecution of the Athesian defenders, no retribution. In return, Amalia would swear fealty to King Sergei and ask him to protect her and her subjects. Athesia would become a vassal state. Religion and taxes, those were the two things the Parusites would not compromise on. Other than that, they were surprisingly benign with their terms.
Finally, Amalia would lose her title. She would become just the governess of Athesia.
Amalia wasn’t really sure why a man whose father had been killed by her father would be so kind.
The presence of that massive Naum force must be the reason, she figured.
She did not know what Lucas and Jarman had done with their magic, but they might have also sneaked into the Parusite camp and talked to Princess Sasha. They may have tried to convince her with the same stories they had used with James and her. Perhaps it had worked. Amalia could not think of any other reason why King Sergei would accept peace.
Maybe he is a bigger man than I thought, she wondered. Maybe he is not obsessed with respect. A true king would sacrifice everything for his nation. So would an empress. Only no one had taught her that lesson in Roalas, two years back. Well, they had tried, and she had been blind.
The Athesian delegation arrived first. Amalia dismounted, extremely self-conscious about gliding off the saddle elegantly. If she tripped and fell, she would embarrass her entire nation. Servants rushed forward to offer her drinks. One of the ladies was holding a brush to dust her skirt. Amalia waved them away. She took a deep breath and focused on the Parusite princess.
Sasha hobbled under the awning a few moments later, face hard, serious, battle worn. This woman had seen death and never once cried, Amalia knew. This woman was her superior.
“Empress Amalia of Athesia,” Major Gabe of the Fourth Legion announced. He had been chosen to lead the proceedings because of his impressive voice and since he had a passing knowledge of law and commerce. His father had been a notable trader. “Princess Sasha, the commander of the Red Caps, sister to His Royal Highness King Sergei of Parus, speaking in his name.”
No fancy titles on either side, Amalia noted.
“Please be seated,” the major said, pointing at the two chairs on the opposite ends of the table.
Sasha sat down first, grimacing at her injury. Amalia waited, as protocol dictated, and then followed suit, feeling clumsy in her dress. She wished she could wear snug trousers like the princess. She wished she could fight with a sword. She wished the tomcat’s edge of her ruined ear did not show under her hair.
Gabe placed two leather-bound books on the table and flipped them open. Written inside was the declaration of surrender and its terms. Some would call it peace, but it was surrender. Amalia was going to admit defeat and let King Sergei rule her people. She would officially smother her father’s dream. Class and religion would return to Athesia.
But it was better than death. Had to be.
The officers stood around the two women, like a flock of fidgety geese, peering down but not really looking, trying to appear stately and calm. Amalia was not sure what they all thought, but she was certain the warlord did not like this. It went against his ambitions.
Jarman was pleased. But that only meant he had more people willing to die fighting Calemore together. It wasn’t as if a bright future of cooperation and trust awaited them all. Still, it was the only way, he swore. The only way the realms stood any chance of surviving.
One day, our sons will rise against the Parusite yoke, she thought. One day, Athesia will be free again.
But she didn’t dare think about children. To bear them, she needed a husband first. Someone to love and trust. Someone like Gerald. Certainly not a monster like Xavier. But Jarman had promised to protect her if she gave him peace.
She scanned through the neat, tight writing of a practiced scribe’s hand. The details were meaningless now. It was all about the symbol of her signature. Keeping her hand steady, she signed her name and sealed the fate of her realm.
“You have done a great thing,” Jarman praised.
It was later that day, and the world remained unchanged. Ecol still burst with people it could not feed, farmers and refugees and traders still demanded to petition her, to tell her about the roaming bands of thieves and killers in the countryside. She still didn’t have any friends, or loyalty from her mixed lot of soldiers. It all held together almost by magic, one woven of coincidence, sheer luck, habit, and bittersweet torment.
“The future will tell,” she said, trying to sound calm, to keep acid from her voice.
“Only today, you had just ten thousand men capable of fighting against the Naum menace. Now, you have twenty thousand Red Caps at your side. And still more are under way. The king is sending fresh troops north, and soon, we will have fifty thousand soldiers.”
She shrugged. “And my patrols report the enemy has more than ten times that number.”
Jarman pursed his lips. “We must not despair. This is a monumental event for the people of the realms. After so many years of war, there is finally peace between the nations. It is a fragile thing, like the pink skin on an old burn, but we must hold it together at all costs. And I will help you.”
Amalia remembered something. “What about James’s widow?” She will not accept this peace.
Jarman looked toward the celebration. “This is a great strategic victory for Parus. They have leverage against Caytor, and they sorely need it. Now, the High Council must have intended to use Lady Rheanna against you, but you have completely foiled their plan. Their ambitions are meaningless now. So they will be forced to accept a grudging peace like they did in your father’s time.”
Amalia sighed. “What will my Caytorean troops do now?”
He pointed north. “If they are wise, they will remain loyal. No one can doubt the threat of the Naum invasion anymore. Regardless, Lucas and I will handle that, if needed. I promise you.”
She recalled Master Hector’s warning. He had called Jarman’s rumor a blessing. Maybe it was. Maybe she could finally put her fear of betrayal at rest. With the White Witch poised to strike into the heart of the realms any day now, there was no more time for strife in the realms.
J
ust a stone’s throw away, the Parusites and Athesians and the odd Caytorean were mingling, honoring the peace agreement with loud music, drinking, joking, and feasting, seemingly oblivious to the death awaiting them. The celebration was taking place under the evening sky, because there were just too many people to cram into Ecol’s small establishments. It was almost like the upcoming Autumn Festival, happening a few weeks too early.
While the officers chattered, and gulped wine, the soldiers were having no rest. Companies of Red Caps were marching into the Athesian camp to mingle and meet with their former adversaries and take defensive positions against Calemore’s army. After months of killing one another, the two factions were coming together. There was a vibrant buzz of excitement among her soldiers, hardly any fear, resentment, or mistrust. The men were eager to meet so many foreign women, no matter that they had tried to hack them to pieces just weeks earlier.
Despite an orderly procession, there had been incidents all afternoon. Even though Hector and Xavier had ordered quartermasters to confiscate all bows from the sentries, a few stubborn men had smuggled their weapons to their posts and fired an odd arrow against the marching mass of women. The temptation had been too great.
Then, a few men had forgotten to say please before groping a teat and had their fingers and noses broken. Half a dozen men had been beaten for attempted rape, and another twenty awaited morning judgment, which would decide if they would hang. Still, it was a peaceful and friendly surrender overall.
Amalia looked at the cohort of revelers. Amazing. Must be survival instincts, she thought. Female officers and her own commanders were talking freely, discussing their worldly differences. Not a bad word about the assaults against Ecol. Princess Sasha stood apart, like herself, with a priest woman at her shoulder.
The most entertaining person in the lot was Captain Speinbate of the Borei. The mercenary had gold-capped teeth, and when he laughed, he shone. His olifaunts had been left far outside the main garrison to avoid panic. But his men moved in the crowd, and they had all the traits of professional swindlers about them. Amalia did not like mercenaries, but then she realized her own army was half paid for its loyalty. And these Borei had a certain friendly charm about them.
A dangerous lot, certainly.
She decided to drift closer. She had to be brave. She had to participate, show her strength. She could not abandon her people right now. This surrender did not absolve her of her responsibility. On the contrary, it only bound her harder. Everything that happened now to Athesia would be her fault. Everything.
The Borei captain was talking to Xavier. She saw tears of mirth in the warlord’s eyes, a surprising phenomenon. Master Hector was nibbling a celery shoot, grinning broadly at the mercenary’s story.
“…and the last one to hold wins!”
The old sergeant laughed hard. Xavier threw his head back and roared. Some of the drunken people nearby joined in. “I must see that, Captain.”
Amalia stepped next to them. They sobered, but only a little. “Captain Speinbate, I presume?”
He looked her up and down quickly, not just a man sizing up a woman, an expert trader evaluating new merchandise. “At your service, Your Highness,” he said. For a price, his eyes added.
“May I know what is so entertaining?” she asked, feeling silly and awkward. But what else could a defeated empress do? Go back to her inn, sulk, and cry?
Their mirth fled them. Xavier grimaced sourly. Master Hector clamped his mouth on the celery rib, and he looked like some rodent. The Borei tried to smile, and ended up looking like he was picking his teeth. “Hmm, not sure if you should. But if you insist.”
“Please,” she said.
“Well, we have this game,” the mercenary explained. “You take several volunteers, and you make them drink oil from these beans we grow in the south.” He held his thumb and forefinger up, half an inch apart. “Brown with black dots. We call it kesset. So they drink a cup each, and it makes their bowels go loose.” He clapped enthusiastically. “Now, the competition is, they stand naked on a white sheet, you see, and the man who holds the longest without soiling himself wins.”
He’s just told an empress about a shitting competition, Amalia thought. What a man. “Thank you,” she murmured, feeling stupid for intruding. She moved deeper into the crowd. Inevitably, her feet led her to her new ruler, or rather, his sister.
“Your Highness,” Amalia said, feeling strange.
“Your Excellence.” The princess returned the greeting.
Amalia thought about something smart to say. Discuss war? No, not now. She could pretend her life was normal and simple for one evening, one night. “Will you move into Ecol now?”
Sasha shook her head. “No. I prefer to lodge with my troops. Gives me purpose and awareness. A commander that sleeps away from her troops is a bad example for all.”
Amalia nodded. Was this a jibe at her soft imperial upbringing? Or just simple, practical truth? But she was glad the princess did not want to sleep in Ecol. That meant she could still hold Brotherly Unity and pretend to own something.
Officially, Princess Sasha would rule Athesia, she knew, but Amalia would be allowed back to Roalas, where she would govern the princedom. It would be like before, only the money would go to Sigurd. Provided they defeated Calemore, that was.
The priestess at her side gently tapped Sasha’s forearm. The princess turned, scowled, and saw the sun was gently setting, coloring the evening clouds orange and pink.
“It is time for the evening prayer,” she announced.
Prayer?
A horn note rose into the air some distance off, but it had a mellow, relaxed tone to it. Not a cry to arms, not a warning against an enemy army, a summons of a sort.
The priestess raised her hands and began chanting, her voice too low to discern the words. But Princess Sasha knelt, closed her eyes, and prayed. All around, the Red Caps officers did the same. Then, Amalia did the same.
She closed her eyes and kept her mouth silent, but she knew this was expected of her. Halfway through the ceremony, she peeled one lid open and stared. Everyone was at half their height, kneeling in the grass, all except the Borei, who were watching the prayer with an amused look on their scheming faces. The Athesians looked shocked, probably as much as she was.
Humiliation is nothing, Amalia thought. I am here to protect my people.
Soon, it ended, and the celebration continued just like before. Amalia moved woodenly through the crowd, trying to salvage what little dignity she had left, but the festivity moved past her eyes in a sad blur.
In the morning, a duck-waddling Agatha woke her. For a moment, Amalia thought it was just another day, and she had dreamed the humiliation yesterday. She would go into the common room of the inn and talk to her advisers and officers, who would be assembled and waiting. They might begin discussing war, provisions, and banditry even without her, as they often did.
But Agatha looked worried.
Still drowsy, Amalia thought something awful had happened while she slept, so she rushed to the window and squinted against the bright sunlight. Soon, her eyes adjusted, and she saw a peaceful Ecol wake to another day, oblivious to the threat looming to the north. The fields were littered with the leftovers of the previous night’s celebration, shattering any last shred of hope that she may have just dreamed her downfall. Life was ignorance, rolling down a hill until it hit something and stopped, she thought.
I am no longer am empress, she figured. That much wasn’t a dream.
“Amalia,” Agatha said. She sounded very tense.
“What is it?”
“This is different, Amalia. They are waiting for you. The Sirtai wizard wanted to come up here, but I would not let him.”
Amalia looked at her maid and did not request any clarification. Mind swirling with gloomy ideas, she dressed quickly, squished an apricot open and tossed the pip back into the bowl, bit into the soft orange flesh and found it too sweet for her taste, and then went downstairs.<
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Whatever happens, I will face the consequences bravely, she promised herself.
In the common room of the inn, all of her staff was assembled, plus several Red Caps. They stood around a single stranger who looked like a traveler, a man of precise yet nondescript looks and age, dirt on his clothes the only sign of imperfection. He looked well at ease with all the soldiers glaring at him. Behind them, hidden by the shoulders and heads of her officers, several more travelers waited.
Jarman stood right next to the man, looking quite cheerful. The contrast in his mood was just as startling and alarming as the presence of this stranger. There was something about him that made her feel worried. She just could not explain it.
But it was like that night when Calemore had stolen the bloodstaff and the book.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” he said, his voice a pure song. “My name is Gavril, and I bring thirty thousand souls to assist you in your war against evil.”
Then, one of the Parusite women stepped sideways. Not deliberately. It was just too crowded, and standing idly was boring, tiring. Everyone was fidgeting ever so slightly, and there was nothing wrong about that. But as she moved, Amalia could see behind her.
There was a taciturn man with a long moustache there, a big, fat boy that looked frightened, and another, skinny lad with ancient eyes, radiating the same timeless ease as Gavril. He looked even more modest than the other man, except for the object he was holding in his right hand.
A perfect glass rod, topped with claws.
Her bloodstaff.
CHAPTER 26
“You need blood,” Tanid said. “Fresh blood.
”Ewan looked around him. All he could see was wet grass.
On the far side of the valley, a few miles south of Bassac, a large, muscled arm of the enemy army was milling. One might almost think an early snow had fallen and clad the hillslopes in soft powder. But the illusion went away the moment the large patch of white moved and shifted and spread tentacles.
Tanid’s eyes were glazed with grim determination. “We need a corpse then.”
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 27
