The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  What happens when he loses patience? she thought. I’m a fool for meddling in this. No going back now.

  “Try harder,” he insisted with a small, wicked smile on his perfect lips.

  She closed her eyes. Flickers of images strobed on the inside of her eyelids, in jarring purple and sick yellow, a glimpse of some future that may or may not manifest, snippets of worlds and uncertainties that stretched around her. Each time she read the book, more of those came to life. But there was a pattern emerging there. From the bubbles of mud sliding over rocks, from raindrops hitting the pond, from sparks of flames, wisps of mist, ghosts of swirling air, and the odd scent that budded in the back of her mind. Some of the faces and places and feelings, they came more often, sharper, somehow more real.

  For a moment, she wondered what an ordinary person might see in the book, someone without her magical talent. Would they just be reading long lines of cryptic text? Or would they start feeling or seeing future truths? What did Calemore see in the book? Did she dare ask him?

  She opened her eyes, and the images went away, slithering back to the black recess of her mind. Calemore lurked there, too. He was a part of whatever the future had in store for her. A future that left her uneasy. Does that mean if I help him, I make things worse?

  A future she did not want for herself and Sheldon.

  So how could she prevent it? What did it mean anyway? What would happen?

  Nigella wanted the answers; she wanted them badly. But that meant staying, reading the book, wrestling its truths out. That meant Calemore coming to visit her, demanding his own slice of the future, making her feel terrified and excited. She liked making love to him. She liked when he praised her culinary skills. He had promised her anything for herself, for Sheldon.

  She owed it to her son, at least.

  Rob made me feel good about myself; then he abandoned me. James was all pleasant and nice, and then he betrayed me, too. Calemore is a madman, evil, ruthless, but he likes my pies; he likes me. Rob and James never cared for my cooking. They never cared for Sheldon.

  “I will try harder,” she promised.

  Calemore stood up. “I will go now. There isn’t enough room in the cottage for all three of us.”

  She scrambled up quickly and felt blood drain from her head. Slightly dizzy, she put a hand on his chest, trying to steady herself.

  He was smiling, watching her. “I will return in two days. I will expect answers. And you’d better be alone.”

  She felt lust creep down her gullet, into her stomach, warming her up.

  Calemore turned to leave, then spun around. “One more thing. Do you have another slice of that pie left?”

  CHAPTER 24

  Amalia had visited the north of Athesia only three times in her life, each time accompanying Father on his tours. The first time, she had just been a child and enamored with the long ride in the carriage, counting bumps in the road and cows she saw in the fields. The second time followed the insurrection in Pain Mave. After Father had summoned the village elders to Roalas and explained to them the finer side of his mercy, he had led a small excursion north to see and to be seen, to make sure the distance and reports did not warp the reality. And the third time, she had gone just a year before Father’s death, to oversee a large commerce deal in Bassac, with both Caytorean and Eracian dignitaries present. It had been a lesson in economy, as well as diplomacy.

  Now, it was the fourth time, and she felt stupid and useless.

  The crowds were cheering, elated, but all of the attention was directed at her half brother.

  Ecol had been liberated.

  Four days ago, the five legions under his leadership had arrived before the city and delivered the worried citizens their freedom. The Seventh Legion, still in charge of the city’s defense, had surrendered peacefully once they had learned who it was that rode at the front of the column. Well, not exactly the front, more like the middle and well surrounded by bodyguards.

  Since, there had been nothing but joy in Ecol. The good news kept spreading like wildfire. First, Bassac, now Ecol. Both major towns in the north of the realm were his. The bandits had all been destroyed or repelled, scattered across the border into Eracia or sent into the jaws of death of the Parusite army farther south. The countryside was calm and safe once again.

  As a token of gratitude, Ecol’s mayor had declared a week of celebration, offering his wine and ale for free. James’s foragers would go hunting every morning to return with their saddles heavy with game, birds, small deer, rabbits, even a wild piglet now and then. Every day, the city cooks would season the meat in spices and roast them in front of the city walls, with people dancing to the tune of pipes and drums. Everyone was invited, from beggars to rich merchants. Soldiers mingled with the locals, and Amalia wondered how many bastards would be born come the summer.

  The feast had not skipped her or Agatha. Like everyone else, they were entitled to fresh meat and drinks. All they had to do was walk from their camp into the revelry area and stand in line at the nearby cook fire. The air was thick with a pleasant aroma of smoke and burnt wood. After the harsh, eye-stinging stench of war in Roalas, Amalia had never expected to smell good flames ever again.

  Today, she had gained enough courage to endure the thick crowd.

  Random sounds of musical instruments, bad singing, and coarse laughter drifted around. Everyone talked, but so many voices became a drone, a solid wall of noise that underlined everything. People mostly clustered in familiar groups, Ecol townsmen talking to their neighbors or customers, soldiers retelling feats of battle from the recent weeks, refugees gobbling food down with urgency, daring to hope their lives would be better now. You could not tell Caytoreans and Athesians apart; they all looked the same. Almost a memory of her father’s rule.

  Her bastard kin would come into the open every once in a while to smile, to pose and wave, to kiss maidens even while his bodyguards watched in alarm for knives hidden in the folds of skirts. Women praised his courage, promising to call their sons after him. Men nodded in appreciation, admiring his skill, his leadership, his good fortune. Everything was as it should be.

  Only Amalia was dead. No one mentioned her, not once.

  Agatha had secured a bowl of fresh carrots and poached, tangy-tasting sprouts, and the two of them were having a magnificent dinner. Pete stood nearby, chatting to a fellow officer, his hair combed and slicked, his uniform clean of mud. He almost looked timid, and when he glanced at her maid, his eyes lit with something approaching peace and adoration.

  Amalia did not envy her, of course. She was glad for her. But the tight knot in the pit of her stomach was cold and hard.

  Bonfires licked at the dark sky, the stars and the moon hidden under a veil of clouds. The Autumn Festival was only a week away, and she did not doubt her half brother would make sure the people of Ecol remembered it for years to come.

  After conquering that first village, he had moved with ruthless speed into Athesia. He had sent prongs of his cavalry into the countryside to search for allies and enemies, to rout brigands, and to look for ambushes, likely camp spots, and natural resources. She had not seen the short campaign in Bassac, only heard the soldiers bragging. The city had been besieged by a sizable no-man’s army that had strangled the roads and rivers, making sure no one got in or out. They had just sat there, without any real ambition to storm Bassac, waiting for the city to lose spirit and give up or just starve to death. They had not expected two legions to drive lances into their backs.

  Just before moving on Ecol, James had discovered a few scattered regiments of the Eighth Legion farther north, closer to the border with Eracia, and they had gladly joined him. More loyalists, Amalia thought, wondering if she could somehow exploit the fact, but no idea came to her.

  Finally, Amalia had watched the Battle of Ecol—or rather, didn’t, because it never really happened.

  Ecol was a mining town, and before the Parusite invasion, it had been a critical provider of steel for the army
. Ecol was home to Master Guilliam, the famous manufacturer of crossbows. Ecol supplied helmets and breastplates to all the legions. Controlling the city meant access to weapons and tools that the army needed.

  The Seventh Legion had troops in three forts around it, one just near the mining camp, the other on the south side, the third farther away, hidden by a wrinkle of low hills, so that anyone arriving from the east or south would not know it was there.

  Up on the hill outside the town, glaring through the morning mist, Amalia had watched a brown column of troops pour through the gaps in the forest behind her and split into two massive wings, marching around the defenders’ position slowly, in no hurry, a solid press of men with spears. The city lookouts had sounded a bell, but then, it had been too late, and Ecol was cut off from the world, encircled. With fear in her gullet, Amalia had expected her bastard brother to order a deadly charge into the city’s streets. She had expected him to send Athesians against their own, against innocent women and children. She had believed he would do the same thing as in all those other hamlets and towns.

  Only he had not. An envoy was sent, that old man with gnawed leather for skin, and he had returned accompanied by several other men. Two hours later, James had marched his forces into Ecol, lauded by its citizens. A bloodless victory, and now he had access to the best weapons in Athesia, while everyone else was enjoying free food and wine.

  Lucky bastard.

  In just a few short months, he had done so much more than she had.

  Amalia fished the last sprout from the bowl and ate it. She wanted to dramatize, feel like she had lost her appetite because of him, but she had long lost the illusion of self-sacrifice. Nothing she did as a washerwoman would help her cause. She could starve herself to death or gorge on raw, dripping flesh, and no one would notice or care. Eating was the sensible thing to do.

  A surge in the noise stole her attention. James had shown his face again, and the people called to him, waving their leftover food and cups of drink. He had clambered onto a small stage erected specially for him so he could address the thousands all at once.

  He waved his hands, and the crowd quieted some, the expectation pierced by an odd giggle or burp, and melancholy wails of inebriated singing. The fires crackled, shooting orange sparks into the night, the silver smoke veiled, making funny shapes against the night’s velvet sky. Soon enough, most of the eyes were looking at Emperor James, wondering what he would say next.

  “Citizens of Ecol, people of Athesia, brave soldiers,” he began, “I am most grateful for your hospitality, for your sacrifice.” Simple words that simple people would understand. “Our feast continues. Tomorrow, we shall have a parade and a competition. Ecol’s finest craftsmen will present their best weapons. And then, we will have an archery tournament!” There was a ragged growl of appreciation boiling in the crowd from those sober enough to understand. Hands clapped. “All hail Athesia!” he finished, and the throng exploded in drunken ecstasy, hollering at the top of their lungs. The din was massive, almost physical in ferocity.

  James vanished from sight. Amalia watched the crowd around her. She was entirely forgotten. Empress Amalia was dead.

  “Hey, lass,” someone called.

  Amalia turned around and saw a plain-looking soldier grinning at her. Involuntarily, she reached up toward her short-cropped scalp, toward the scar tissue on her temple, the chipped ear, but the darkness hid those.

  Relax. He’s drunk, and he thinks you’re a peasant woman, she told herself, but the blood pounded in her neck. She was a fool to have come here. Why expose herself? Someone might see her, recognize her. Officers from the Seventh might remember her face. Nicholas and his men might suddenly wander by and glimpse the ghost of their dead empress in their midst, and then her woes would truly start.

  “What do you want?” she snapped. She knew she should be ignoring him, but there was bitterness in her soul, a green layer of it.

  He gestured, a jerky, uncoordinated motion. “Fancy a tumble?”

  Amalia frowned. “What?” And when she realized what he had meant, she reddened. He giggled. “Get lost,” she snarled and stormed away, going back to her camp.

  She woke to the sound of pattering, erratic, soft. At first, she thought she was back in Roalas, in her imperial chambers, and a male pigeon was strutting on the sill, trying to impress a lady pigeon somewhere. Then, she realized it was the rain, an honest autumn rain.

  Her head hurt from too much ale. She got up and stepped around gingerly, trying to work strength back into her wooden limbs. She stumbled out of the tent, into a gray world streaked with tiny silver vertical lines. Chilly drops slid down her neck, sobering her instantly. She shivered, but was glad for the cool, cleansing touch of the downpour.

  Amalia spread her arms and looked up, blinking rapidly as rain hissed into her eyes.

  The camp was quiet. The last four mornings, it had been like this, a lazy slumber of men who had finally let down their guard after weeks of hard travel and killing. Not that anyone forgot the threat of the Parusite army just two weeks south, but for now, everyone could rest and enjoy the victory their emperor had brought them. Even her duties could wait.

  She knew she should wait for Agatha before the two of them went to the mess and begged for their morning gruel, but she was feeling anxious, edgy. Ignoring the ants of pain crawling across her scalp, she headed through the camp. A few soldiers had woken up, some craftsmen were busy sharpening their tools, but it was silent and almost empty of souls.

  The earth sucked at her feet, making her stagger and tire quickly. Soon, she was panting, drenched in rain. She pulled her short woolen cape closer, hiding any womanly bit that stuck out.

  There was a hive of human noise to her right, unusual for the after-feast morning. She steered toward it, curious.

  There he was, her half brother.

  He was sitting on a gray horse, its hair dappled black by the rain. By his side were some of his cronies, including that Caytorean smoker. Amalia thought she recognized the Seventh deputy commander, but he looked in charge now. After all, the senior officers were killed by the Pum’be, she thought. Another man. Commander Nicholas. A handful of armed men.

  They did not seem drunk at all. They all looked very businesslike, a stark visage for the gloomy early morning. She had expected James to be inside Ecol, sleeping in the mayor’s house, entertaining the rich, doling out favors, and spreading his charm. She had not thought he would hazard the weather for a brisk morning ride.

  Something was happening.

  Amalia wanted to know. But that meant coming closer, risking a clear look from at least two men who had talked to her in the past. You’re a coward, her conscience whispered in a slimy voice. Better a coward than a dead, brave fool, her reason tried to counter.

  James laughed, and that man Rob joined him. Commander Nicholas was smiling politely. James’s chief killer, the one with that erratic blink, was wearing a scowl. He did not seem to like whatever had transpired.

  I must know. Amalia stepped closer. This was the officers’ part of the camp. She should not be here unless she had business to do. They would notice her, she would be discovered, and her half brother would be forced to smother her in silence, burying her in truth.

  “…left behind,” she heard Commander Nicholas saying. “Not a large force. But they might be a screening force.”

  “They would not dare strike into Caytor,” the killer was saying. Xavier, Amalia recalled.

  James tapped his cheek. “We cannot take any chances. What if they attack my people? Eight thousands unarmed civilians. Any news from Councillor Sebastian?”

  “What do we do about those two women?” Xavier asked.

  Her half brother pulled on the reins, and his horse took a small nervous step back. “I want to talk to them,” he spoke, and he sounded impatient, as if he had said that before.

  “Let me handle this,” the killer growled.

  “No torturing women, I will not stand for it,” the
emperor hissed.

  What women? Amalia wondered. Another step.

  “That’s a risky business. They can infiltrate just like that, posing as ordinary women, Your Highness,” an unfamiliar voice was saying.

  “Risky indeed. War is a risky business. But we will not cut the feast short. And there will be no torture. I don’t care. Just make sure the camp perimeter is set tight. And if you’re really worried, we will have separate fires for the commoners and the army, but that sends the wrong message.”

  “I am worried, Your Highness.”

  James muttered something she did not quite catch. “…uninterrupted.”

  “Bad weather for archery,” Rob complained.

  Her half brother looked north. There was a patch of clear, jaundiced sky there peeking through the cloud cover, and it seemed to be creeping slowly toward Ecol. Maybe the rain would cease by midday, she thought and wondered what he was pondering.

  “In the worst case, we will postpone the parade and tournament until tomorrow. Or the day after. But they will happen.”

  The man she did not recognize did not seem to like the decision, but said nothing.

  “Now, take me to see these spies.”

  Xavier led the group away, riding toward the mining camp.

  Amalia watched, trying to piece together what had just happened. Spies? What did that mean? Was Ecol safe? But the camp was peaceful and quiet, still.

  “Boy, whatcha doing here?” someone spoke in a thick voice.

  They meant her. She knew it. She was a fool. Boy, they think I’m a man. Short hair, slim figure, bundled in a cape that left everything to the imagination.

  “Nothin’,” she answered, trying to sound like a man.

  “You is one of the town lads?” the same voice asked. “You lost?”

  She nodded vaguely.

  “Free grub, eh?” There was a tiny note of sympathy in that voice now. Amalia did not dare turn around to see the speaker. She did not want to know who he was. And she could not let him see her.