The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Sonya was busy running her finger idly over the fabric of her dress when the Father of the Bear entered. She did her best to look nonchalant, but a whole flurry of emotions gripped her. She hated admitting it, but she had almost gotten used to seeing him in her chamber. The early ritual of rape and senseless beating and intimidation had been replaced with something akin to mild interest and maybe a trace of respect. Perhaps he did not care for her as a person, but he found value in her courage and knowledge. That was good enough for her, for now. A victory, a small one.

  Pacmad was carrying something in his arms, a bundle of papers. He tossed them onto her small writing desk. “Some reports from the guilds. Their monthly yield, they say. You will tell me if they lie, and if they do, I will hand those women over to my men.”

  Sonya touched the side of the food table nervously, then recovered and folded her hands in front of her demurely, hiding the botched nail work that bitch Janice did. “How do I look, Master?”

  He looked her up and down like she was a bag of grains at a market stall. “Like an expensive whore,” he said unceremoniously.

  She grimaced. Not the kind of answer she had expected. It was all Janice’s fault. She would have that maid punished. She flashed a brave smile for him, ignoring his remark. Her hand wanted to flutter away, to play with something just to keep the tremor away, but she steadied herself.

  “You look pensive.”

  The Kataji inclined his head. “Your city is not cooperating with me,” he growled.

  Sonya stepped closer. “Do you want something to eat?” On the table, there was a platter of smoked meat, rye bread, and pears. It was her dinner, but he might like it if she fed him. Usually, he did not object to her grooming him, whether it was to massage his back or his calves or his scalp or to feed him morsels. Sometimes, he would hit her, just to remind her he held the upper hand, but most of the time, his backswings carried little to no enthusiasm, like it was a chore.

  He sniffed the air. “All right. You can feed me.” He plopped onto her sofa. The fabric would smell of his leathers, she knew, but it was a small price to pay. Carefully, Sonya knelt at his feet, making sure she did not appear too eager.

  Sonya cut a thin slice of bread and heaped it with the salted strips of beef, then placed a single slice of pear on the top and reached forward. He bit into it. She waited. She did not want to press him with questions, but she craved information. She had to know what had happened in Somar that day; otherwise, she might make a bad call and anger him, or misjudge the situation and worsen her condition. Pacmad expected her to give him impeccable, honest, and useful advice on how to run the city. He expected her to help him convince everyone to cooperate with his whims and orders. And he expected her to negotiate peace and war in his name. That part had not yet happened, and she was glad for it, because she still wasn’t sure how to make herself appear loyal to both her master and the Eracians. Not an easy task, but then, she had never feared dire challenges.

  He swallowed. “You painted your nails? Looks like blood.”

  Almost reluctantly, she showed him her hand. “You like it?”

  Pacmad swatted it away. “I don’t care. As long as that hand stays where I can see it.” He looked down at her. She ever so slightly perked her breasts up. He made a sour face. “Your belly is still flat. You won’t give me any children.”

  There was nothing she could say to that. “What happened today?” she hazarded.

  He dug a thick finger into his ear. “Your women are lying to me. They think I’m some stupid, illiterate tribesman they can swindle with their soft voices and long words. Like they didn’t get their lesson, they want me to raze this city to the ground.”

  Sonya did not know the full extent of Pacmad’s rampage through Somar. It had been quite extensive, although his troops had mostly focused on killing men. Even in their fury and lust for revenge, they had destroyed and killed and raped in a very deliberate fashion, knowing they would stay and rule whoever survived the first few days of the battle. Sonya remembered watching the fall of Somar. Like everyone else, she had mistaken the trail of slaughter and fires as wanton destruction. Once again, her blue-eyed master had proven everyone wrong. Underestimation was the most lethal of mistakes, she thought.

  “You will go to them, and you will talk to them,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “And you will convince them. They will learn how to operate those forges and tanneries. If Kataji women can do it, then so can they. I want Somar producing food and weapons. Or there will be no city.”

  Sonya wondered if she could maneuver as easily and smoothly in some tent camp deep inside nomad lands. Perhaps she could, but it was best if she remained here, in known territory. She could at least account for her friends and foes and rivals. She knew what to expect from the Eracian resistance in the north and south. It would be best if Somar did not burn.

  One of the candles guttered and hissed dead. The room turned that much darker. Pacmad’s eyes shone with intelligence.

  “And I will be sending my peace envoys tomorrow. You will prepare the letters so that your countrymen are convinced my intentions are serious.”

  Just as she thought Pacmad may have let the matter drop. Well, another challenge. Only she would have to think fast.

  “I am not sure who holds the north of the realm now. Most of Leopold’s council were sent to Athesia last year, and they are probably still held there. They might have the authority to negotiate peace. Or maybe the army.” She thought of another pressing subject. “I was thinking. Should any of the other captive women bear you children, they will be considered the lineage of their noble families, not yours.” That was probably a muddy lie, but in the confusion of war, no nobleman would want to lose his claim on the land over such a trivial issue like parenthood.

  Pacmad spat a pip in his hand and smeared it on the table. “You seem to be hearing things. Maybe you have too much freedom around the palace. So what are you telling me, that I should gut the bitches and their little whelps?”

  Sonya shrugged, trying to make it look as if his decision did not really matter to her.

  “And what if I get you pregnant? You have a husband, too? He’s a count, right?”

  No chance of that happening, she wanted to tell him, but she managed to look concerned, even if she only imagined him carving her open and wrestling an unborn bloody mess from her belly. “I am married, but that does not matter anymore.”

  He smiled. “Really?”

  Sonya grimaced. “My husband is a weakling. A clerk. Nothing more.” She had no idea what Bart might be doing in Athesia, and she did not really care. For all she was concerned, he could die. The Barrin family did not have heirs who could usurp her right to his assets, so she did not need him any longer. Since Leopold was dead, and there was a war blistering across the realms, Bart’s stupid mission of making peace with Empress Amalia had become meaningless.

  Sonya wished she knew more about what was happening in Paroth, with the Southern and Northern Armies, what the likes of her husband were doing in Roalas, how many of them still lived or held any power. What was the situation in the besieged city? What was King Sergei planning? What was that impostor James doing? But Pacmad knew that information was power, so he gave her so little of it, only what he thought she needed.

  If she were going to run the negotiations, she had to know everything. So far, she had secured freedom for herself. The next step was to convince him she must have the knowledge of worldly affairs in order to lead the negotiations. But she decided not to push him, for now.

  The Kataji snorted, wiping his mouth. “A weakling? So why did you marry him? You sucked his cock for money, was that it?”

  The jibe stung, but it was not that far from the truth. “We hardly ever slept together.”

  Pacmad rubbed his hands on the sofa, leaving some crumbs on the velvet. “I brought you a gift,” he said.

  Her brows shot up in surprise. “Oh, thank you, Master.”

  He reached toward the small
of his back and produced a tweed pouch. Inside, there was a diamond necklace. Another one, she thought, but it was stunning. The little gems were cased in silver, and each one sparkled yellow or pink or light blue in the candlelight.

  She preened her neck. His rough, callused fingers touched her chin, her ears, her collarbone, fumbled with the clasp, and she was worried for a moment he might try to strangle her, but the deathly thrill of that moment actually excited her. Pacmad had not beaten her today, he seemed to be in a good mood, and he had not rejected her ideas, which meant he might accept them in a few days. Soon, she would get rid of that whore Richelle. Then, she could focus on learning what had happened in the world in the past half a year.

  Sonya was feeling rather elated at the moment. She reached out and traced her finger round the outline of his nipple, through his vest. His face turned slack; his breath quickened. Moments later, he had her pinned down on the bed, tearing the dress off her. She gasped in pain as the bone in the corset dug into her side, and Pacmad kept pulling carelessly. Then, the fabric tore, and there was a red welt on her skin, but she ignored it.

  When Pacmad entered her, she did not try to pretend she was somewhere else. Instead, she focused on his bastard eyes, watched him watch her, a predator and its prey. She did not want to admit it, but she was beginning to enjoy herself. When he climaxed all too soon, she was disappointed, but she said nothing. There would be time for critique on his sexual performance. Before that, she had to work on removing her rivals, learning a whole lot, and securing her future in these negotiations.

  The evening, she felt, was another victory.

  CHAPTER 30

  Bad weather meant dirty uniforms. That meant a lot more work for Amalia.

  Almost daily, all of the washerwomen would congregate at the two banks of the Hebane, the modest watercourse flowing through Ecol, and spend the early morning hours beating filthy clothes against washboards and river stones. They did it downstream in order to keep the city water clean.

  Almost every tree in sight had its lower branches sagging with ropes and wet clothes folded over the lines, and bushes were covered in shirts and blankets. Some women were stomping clothes with their feet inside shallow vats, their legs red with the cold. A few fires were burning, warming water, but it just wasn’t enough. Others were soaking the tabards and trousers in the river, cursing softly as the water nipped at their arms.

  Amalia shared their grief as a nameless camp follower, one of many with a singular duty of supporting James’s army. She was wringing a shirt, but the stain just would not come off. She had a bag of ashes at her side and a jar full of urine, but nothing seemed to help. Soap was in shortage, and it did not bode well for her skin, or any other woman’s.

  “Jerrica! Jerrica!” someone was shouting. It took her a while to realize they meant her.

  She straightened up, pain lancing through her lower back, ants scrabbling around her knees and calves. Agatha was walking toward her, plodding across the grassy riverbank, the hem of her skirt lifted high to keep the mud away.

  Amalia waited for her maid to approach. “Hi, Agatha,” she said. The girl barely spent time with her lately. She was always so busy with Pete. Her maid was wearing a serious look on her face. For a moment, Amalia was worried.

  “Hi, Jerrica,” Agatha said with some emphasis. “We need to talk, in private.”

  Amalia let the uniform drop. She was soaked through anyway, and her skin pricked from the cold. She grabbed her woolen coat and stepped away, ignoring the glances from some of the other women.

  Agatha grabbed her hand and led her several paces away. Then, her face broke into a grin. “Pete wants to marry me!”

  It took a moment for the news to register. “That’s great,” Amalia croaked.

  Agatha’s expression twitched, turning slightly worried. “Of course, Jerrica, my lady, I must ask for your permission, that is. Will you let me marry Pete?”

  How could I refuse? Amalia thought. Even though she needed Agatha by her side, she wanted the maid to be happy. She deserved it after all she had been through with her captain. Besides, how could a lowly washerwoman forbid a friend’s wedding? That would be outright suspicious. No, Empress Amalia was dead, and Agatha served her half brother now. James was too busy to decide the marriage of his soldiers and their common wives. That meant Agatha was free to do anything she wanted.

  Her token gesture touched Amalia. She did not have to ask her, but she had anyway. A reminder that Amalia still meant a lot to her, that they were still friends, if no longer the empress and her lady-in-waiting. A bitter reminder that Amalia was just a simple commoner now.

  “Of course,” Amalia said, trying to keep tears from her eyes and the tremor from her voice.

  Agatha misinterpreted the emotion as one of joy. She hugged Amalia and whispered in her ear, “Thank you. Thank you! Will you be my maid of honor?”

  Amalia smiled against the woman’s shoulder. Oh, how the roles had reversed. She would be the maid now. But there was no way she could refuse, no matter how risky it might be showing her face in public, even for a small wedding between a soldier and a camp follower.

  Well, Agatha would now dedicate all her time to Pete, and Amalia would be forced to fend for herself. Agatha might no longer be able to help her or share the little perks with her. If Pete was kind enough, he might not forget her, and she might still get to see Agatha around.

  Amalia felt like the loneliest person in the world.

  “Yes, of course,” the fallen empress mumbled.

  Agatha’s own eyes were glassy now. “Great. I asked Pete, and he will secure a dress for me and you both. It will be wonderful.”

  “When is the ceremony?” Amalia asked.

  Agatha made a tiny jump of excitement. “The next week’s end. Oh, Amalia, thank you.”

  Amalia missed a heartbeat at the mention of her name. “Jerrica,” she hissed.

  Her maid paled. “Yes, sorry.”

  A cold knot of dread sinking in her belly, Amalia went back to washing the clothes for James’s legions. Her whole body hurt, and the water was icy and chafed her palms raw until she wanted to cry.

  The wedding turned out to be a humble ceremony among the soldiers. Pete’s soldiers were there, his commanding officer, several men from other regiments whom he gambled with, one or two craftsmen, the bride, the groom, and Amalia, trying to look invisible.

  Pete was somewhat religious, so he had asked for a holy man to lead the wedding. Amalia found it an interesting, strange concept. She had not had much opportunity to acquaint herself with faith in Roalas. Oh, she knew that some Athesians still worshipped the gods, but it just wasn’t a favorable custom. The Feoran purge had left everyone wary of too much faith.

  Ecol had a single priest in its fold, an old man who had survived the Movement. He barely walked, he was stooped almost double, he blinked like a bird, and he seemed to forget himself. You might dismiss him too easily, but he had outlived the Feorans deep inside their territory, and had kept his tiny temple alive under her father’s rule.

  A soft autumn rain was beating on their heads, chilly and quiet. The soldiers had stretched a length of tarp to keep the bride and groom dry, while the rest of them hulked in the open, their hair black and cowlicked over their heads. Amalia found herself staring and wondering how many different shapes of heads there were, some bulbous, some egg shaped, some with funny dents and flat spots, some knobbly.

  Her place in the dry was secured, and so was that of Pete’s major, his man of honor. Amalia tried her best not to look at the man, but he insisted on looking at her pointedly. She was sure the man did not recognize her, but it did little to alleviate her feeling of panic.

  “Let us begin,” the priest rasped. “Gifts?”

  Agatha stretched her arms out and handed Pete a bundle. He unfolded it with soldierly precision to reveal a new coat, made from wool and with bits of rabbit fur. In the past week, Agatha and Amalia had sewn like crazy. They had prowled the camp, exchangin
g food and cooking pots and knives for pelts and textile from the tanners. Her fingers were thick with blisters and needle pricks.

  The captain smiled. He bobbed his head, and one of his lieutenants handed him a small cherrywood box over his shoulder. Pete cracked it open to reveal a beaten gold ring. Even Amalia gasped. That must have cost a fortune to make.

  Agatha beamed like the sun as her husband-to-be slipped the ring on her finger. It did not fit on her middle one, so he tried the next, and it worked. He shrugged and stepped back.

  The old priest seemed to be dozing, but then his eyes blinked open suddenly. “Good. Now.” He rubbed his hands. Amalia thought his paper skin might sluice off, splotchy and wrinkled like an old fig, but it held.

  “A wedding is a contract between man and woman,” he began. “But it is a contract made in the sight of the gods and goddesses,” he continued knowingly. “The gods and goddesses grace this solemnization between one Pete, a captain in the army of His Highness, Emperor James of Athesia, and one Agatha, a fair maid.” His ancient head turned left, then right. Both the bride and the groom were watching him intently.

  There was an almost audible dislike for the mention of gods among the men, Amalia thought, but no one said anything. A shoulder moved. A hand twitched. A few faces grimaced.

  “The grace of the gods and goddesses is a blessed thing, for they give you love and happiness and children. To honor the grace, you must make a solemn promise. You promise to treat one another with the love you have for your gods and goddesses. This promise must not be broken.”

  His hand touched Pete’s shoulder. “You, Pete, you will keep the promise?”

  Pete swallowed, his face somber. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  The ancient priest touched Agatha with his other hand. “You, Agatha, you will keep the promise?”

  Agatha did not hesitate. “I will, yes, Your Holiness.”

  How people adapt when they must, when they want, Amalia thought. How come I cannot adapt to this new reality? She wondered what her servant was thinking, how she was feeling. What did this mention of the gods mean to her?