The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Another person to head for Eracia was that cursed count—no, viceroy—taking with him a promise of national harmony. Sergei was glad to be rid of him. He would have yielded to even further demands from Bart, if only to see him leave Roalas. Unfortunately, he had not taken the murders away with him. Now he was left with two survivors of the woe council, and they eyed one another like ancient foes.

  That left him with the subtle matter of leaving the Territories exposed to the Kataji invasion, should they choose to retaliate against his apathy. The dangerous idea of financing Under-Patriarch Evgeny’s army sounded like the simplest solution. He would annul the protest from the clergy in Sigurd, as well as ensure the nomads did not venture south.

  Only, last year, Sergei had learned there were no simple solutions to kingly matters.

  He looked into the corner of the room. A bodyguard stood there like a statue. One of Borya’s men, a member of his own household. The man paid no attention to trivial, nonthreatening details. It was as if he did not hear or see things happening around him, and yet, if Sergei commanded him, he would react immediately, without hesitation.

  That kind of dedication was a unique privilege—and maybe even a curse. To utterly devote your life to another, to put your needs, passions away, to become a ruthless, precise killing machine.

  “Ludmil,” Sergei called.

  “Your Highness,” the soldier said.

  “Tell me one thing, what would you do if you were me?”

  The bodyguard frowned for a moment, then straightened his expression to one of blank professionalism. But there was a minute change to his stance, the sagging of his shoulders, the nervous twitch of gauntleted hands. “Your Highness?”

  “Your family has served my family for four generations. Is that not so? I remember your grandfather around the court, and then your own father rode with King Vlad in the last war. Is that not so? He died before the city gates?”

  Ludmil let out a quick breath through his nostrils. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “What would you do? Would you make peace with these Athesians? Would you try to make peace with that Emperor James, who claims to be Adam’s son? Would you let him hold parts of this land for the sake of peace between our two nations?”

  The bodyguard reached up and tilted the helmet on his head with one big, ungainly armored finger. “Your Highness, I do not know anything about these affairs. I am only a soldier.”

  Sergei smiled. “You are a soldier who knows more about court affairs and politics than most nobles. You are around during meetings. You have heard ambassadors and envoys and army commanders speak. You know what they all think. You know what’s out there. What would you do?”

  Ludmil swallowed, his neck pressed against his ash-colored steel gorget. “I do not know, Your Highness.”

  The king carefully put both of the letters away and stoppered the ink bottle. He pushed the book of prayers to the corner of the desk, aligned it against the corner with his thumb. “Please tell me.”

  Ludmil dared turn his head an inch to the side. “I would crush them, Your Highness. Forgive my bluntness. I would destroy this impostor and unbeliever. Your Highness.” He coughed nervously.

  “To what end?” Sergei asked. He shoved the chair backward, and it left grooves in the carpet. “To what end? To avenge your father? To make Parus that much bigger? What would that bring you personally?”

  His bodyguard squirmed again, leather and plate groaning and rustling. “That Athesian would-be emperor defies your will, Your Highness. He must be destroyed.”

  Sergei smiled sadly. “If only I had your conviction, Ludmil.” Then, he would probably be a guard somewhere, idling his life in statue-like moments of singular devotion. A tedious, enviable task.

  No help from his household retainers and soldiers. They followed his house not because he led it, he King Sergei, but because it was the house of kings, and whoever ruled it was just as good. Sergei’s own turn at the helm was just coincidence or random timing.

  The door to his office opened, and Sasha stepped in, unannounced. She was the only person he allowed that luxury. Ludmil tensed, but he did not draw his weapon. Several of his comrades outside the chamber were charged with making sure no one came through without a challenge. Had there been an attacker out there, they would have heard the clang of swords and the screams of dying.

  Sasha was alone, without her priestess friend. Bad news.

  She snapped her head round toward the bodyguard. “Ludmil, out.”

  Behind her, Vitya, a sergeant of the guard, craned and looked at his king with an expression of chagrin and apology. Sergei shook his head. The door closed shut, pulled by invisible hands.

  Once they were totally alone, Sasha slammed a message roll on the desk. “How long will this humiliation continue?”

  With exaggerated slowness, Sergei fished out the document and read. It was a waxed paper, used by scouts. Written in the coarse style of a field clerk who valued words by their quantity, it spoke of yet another success of the Athesian army in the north of the princedom.

  Sasha huffed. “You will let him take more lands while you sit back and do nothing?”

  Sergei gazed at his sister. Sometimes he wondered how they were related. “I am not doing nothing.”

  The princess snarled. “Your son is dead. Get over it. Start behaving like a king. This is a bloody disgrace.”

  Sergei felt his fists clench. “Mind your language, Sister. I am resolved with Vlad’s death. And I know what I’m planning and doing. It is you who needs to get over things and start behaving.”

  “You’re spending too much time with that Athesian witch. She’s poisoned your mind. I should have hanged her a long time ago.”

  Sergei closed his eyes, tried to calm his nerves. “If you touch Lady Lisa, I will send you back home and find someone else to govern this land. Do you understand me?”

  “Govern? You don’t let me govern!” she shouted.

  The king wanted to rise and shout back, but he knew he must not. “You seem to think your role in Roalas is to hang and burn everyone who so much as blinks at you the wrong way. Instead, I would expect you to work with the Eracians and the High Council to ensure favorable trade agreements.”

  “You do not need me for that. You have your merchants doing that silly work. My Red Caps bled taking this city, and now you expect them to fawn over these people. You forget, Brother, but Empress Amalia’s body was never found, and she might be brewing a bloody rebellion somewhere. As long as she remains alive in people’s heads, the essence of her rule will not fade away. You are risking everything by your misplaced mercy.”

  Sergei lifted the message she had delivered. “They have forgotten her. She’s a nobody. Emperor James is a much bigger threat.” He snorted. “In fact, I would not be surprised if Amalia did not direct her rebellion against him, rather than me, if she were alive.”

  Sasha’s face softened a bit. “Perhaps. Or they might reconcile their differences. Tell me, why did you go to this war? Was it not to avenge Parus? What are you doing, then? You’re helping these people lead better lives.”

  “So you would kill them all, then?” Sergei asked.

  Sasha scrunched her face, thinking. “A considerable number of them. They need to understand the price we had to pay twenty years ago. They need to suffer the same pain, the same desperation.”

  Sergei gritted his teeth. “Our late father lost the war through bad planning and foolish decisions.”

  The princess was silent for a moment. “Your mercy will doom us all.”

  Sergei did rise, but only to pace around the room. “Sister. Things have changed. I thought this war was all about sweet vengeance, but once I stood in this palace and saw Vlad’s body, wrapped in linen, I asked myself, what have I achieved by taking this forsaken city? I gave up my firstborn for what? Some land, a handful of people who had seen three conquerors take chances with their lives in just fifty years? There has to be something else, something bigger.”


  “So what do you want?”

  Sergei stopped in front of her. “I want to make all this sacrifice worthwhile. I do not want to be remembered as a destroyer. Killing and burning is easy. I want to rebuild the realms and unite them under my rule. I want to restore faith to these people. I want to make a lasting peace with our neighbors.”

  Sasha sneered. “You want a place in the books, Brother. Is that it?”

  He ignored her remark. “I want to make my life meaningful.”

  She nodded. “How do you plan to achieve that? By surrendering to your enemies? By letting some bastard sponsored by the High Council mock you with his little conquest? You are undermining your own authority, here, at home, among the soldiers. You are risking everything by allowing your weaknesses to show. You are the king. You cannot allow any mercy.”

  Sergei deflated a little, sighing. “What would you do, Sister?”

  She pointed roughly north. “I would ride and finish that impostor. I would hunt down the ghost of Amalia and hack its head off and mount it on my banner. Only then will you have the respect of the people you rule, and only then will you be able to scribble your name into the history annals. You want to be like Pyotr? Pyotr hacked heads off servants who so much as looked at him the wrong way.”

  Sergei looked up at the ceiling. Was there no other way to glory but a river of blood?

  He thought of the last man to rule this city. A butcher of the highest order. A man who had done atrocities worth every song, rumor, story, and book chapter. True, he had bought himself almost twenty years of peace by being the most ruthless man in known history.

  “Do you only care for killing?”

  Sasha smiled. “I want to defeat this James. I already have about fifteen thousand troops near his position. I will take another thirty thousand from the west and south forts and head toward Ecol. He has roughly the same number, but his troops are all amateurs. Meanwhile, you can stay here, build peace with our neighbors, and keep Roalas clean and bloodless. When I return, I hope you will let me do what you wanted me to in the first place, and that is to rule this princedom.”

  “You want to go to war?” he retorted.

  “Someone has to,” she hissed, almost sweetly. “I am just as concerned about peace. For some reason, this conquest has changed you, and you no longer see clearly. It’s not about chivalry and visions of prosperity. It’s about spilling blood.”

  I am the king, he thought incredulously, but my choices are made for me. When my father peppered my tongue, when he lashed his belt against my back, when he died and I felt a wave of hot relief, when I hunted animals and bandits in the desert, when I rode out to avenge the honor of my nation. When Vlad died because of everyone’s mistakes, and when I thought that death could be justified somehow through gallant deeds. When I appointed Sasha to lead the princedom because there was no one else suitable.

  He had not chosen any of this. He had not wanted any of this. He had not wanted to name his sister the ruler of the new princedom. He had not wanted to slight his dukes and brand them with shame for their incompetence. But that was how things were, and as a king, he had his duty.

  I do want peace, he told himself. Lady Lisa was right. He had to make good from this misery called Athesia.

  “Is there no other choice?” he asked hopelessly.

  Sasha put her hands on his shoulders, almost affectionately. “Brother. Lady Lisa tells a lot of things that are true. And maybe even wise. But you forget. She is the mother of the deposed empress of this realm, and her duty is to see the people of Athesia thrive. Don’t you see? Lady Lisa was married to Adam the Godless. She is not just some bereaved mother tired of all this killing. She is your deadly enemy. She is making you lose this war. Ask her if her husband was so lenient with his foes.”

  “Emperor Adam did spare the city and its people,” he tried.

  Her brows shot up. “Oh, the city will be spared. I do not wish to see Roalas burn. This is my prize, this is my court, and I intend to keep it. But, dear brother, Emperor Adam murdered his enemies to the very last one. He was compassionate after he killed everyone.”

  Sergei swallowed. He was feeling miserable. He was hoping he could put away the pain and focus on making a life. He frowned. “I did win this war. Now, it’s time to be merciful.”

  Sasha shook her head. “Brother, the war is not over yet. As long as Amalia and James live, the war rages on. Let me finish it for you. For the sake of Athesia. For the sake of Parus. Please.”

  The king leaned against the desk. His eyes fell on the two letters, then the message from the north. Emperor James was his enemy. The young lad did not seem burdened by ideals of peace and reconciliation. He was leading his army from one town to another, liberating them to his cause. His goal seemed quite clear, and that meant purging the Parusites from Athesia.

  Am I being a fool or a great leader? he wondered. A man could only do as his choices offered him. Sasha might be cruel, but she was his sister, and he loved her, despite all her failings. She was the only one who truly, deeply understood his pain, his grief, his bitterness. She had her own share, but she had always been stronger than him.

  Sergei rubbed her hand. “May the gods and goddesses bless your mission, Sister.”

  Sasha smiled. “They will, Brother. They will.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Ewan frowned at the text before his eyes. “Kabah,” he read awkwardly.

  “No,” Naman said, looking at him intently. “No, the tone is guttural. R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.”

  Ewan swallowed. “H-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h,” he tried, and managed to spit.

  The fat Oth Danesh smiled. “Perhaps your voice is already too developed.”

  “Perhaps,” Ewan agreed wearily.

  Like most days, he was caged in his ugly palace, on his ugly throne, talking to Naman and through Naman, to his frightened subjects, trying to piece shreds of tales and fables and dusty ancient history into meaningful information that would help him understand who he was, why he had the special powers, why he was invulnerable, and why he needed no food or water.

  Nothing, so far.

  Ewan rapped the top of the small table balanced on his knees. For some reason, these people believed he liked being close to the floor. Even the writing board had tiny, stunted legs, so if he wanted to maintain a pose ever so slightly more comfortable, he had to place it in his lap.

  He was feeling rather irritated with Kamar Doue. Weeks had passed, the wretched gut feeling only intensified, and the answers eluded him.

  He pushed the desk off his folded legs, and it rattled to the floor, the books and papers scattering, gliding farther than he would have expected. Naman wrung his hands nervously, and that stab of cold fear filled his eyes. Ewan hated the fact his presence invoked that emotion. What had he done in a lifetime he did not remember to cause that?

  “I want a normal desk. And a chair. Like in the realms,” he said. For more than three months, he had put up with the weird ideas and customs the folk of Kamar Doue had, but he could no longer stand it. No more.

  Naman bowed slightly. “I will order the carpenters to make one today.”

  Ewan felt his anger oozing away. He felt foolish. He should not be angry with the people around him. He had come to this strange place of his own volition.

  “Why is my throne a pile of cushions and rags? Why am I writing on the floor?” he asked.

  His mentor seemed confused for a moment, but that twitchy, half-terrified smile remained plastered on his lips. “We…read in the books you always wanted it this way, so people would have to grovel before you. And you had clerks writing like this. It amused you.”

  Ewan looked around the empty chamber; without the heads, it was larger than the first time he had entered, but even so, the dome felt close and oppressive. The air stank of too much food and spices, of fear. Over time, he had gotten used to the sight of a dozen servant girls groveling round the hall, waiting for his whim, mercy, and pleasure.

  “Where did you rea
d that?” he asked darkly.

  Naman pointed at the scattered volumes. “In The Pains of Memory. In our books.”

  All of a sudden, Ewan’s stomach tingled. Almost involuntarily, he stared north.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to keep desperation from his mind. A mountain of books written in an alien manuscript, in a foreign language, supposedly held the key to the chest of secrets that was his life. He had been trying to master the Oth Danesh tongue, but it was more difficult than he had expected, especially with his thoughts burdened with confusion. Worse yet, the dialect in those old tomes was obscure, forgotten, and only a few of the people in the city could read it. Which meant Ewan’s learning was slow, laborious, rife with errors and frustration.

  He did not want to rely on Naman telling him what he wanted to hear, but it seemed he would have no choice. He would have to trust the fat man.

  I am trying too hard, Ewan thought. Perhaps he should not try to unravel an age of mystery. Perhaps he should start with simpler, more immediate things. But not here, in this cage. He rose, not a single cramp in his tireless legs. Most men would find the cross-legged position unbearable after a while. It all made him wonder, these little details, these little terrors.

  Who am I?

  He left the hall, Naman trailing after him, trying to don his winter coat. In the square outside the palace, the few citizens who happened to find themselves in his line of sight dropped down to their knees and palms, awaiting his wrath or praise. Three months since arriving in the city, he still could not get used to their reactions.

  Wordlessly, Ewan walked over the snowy ground and headed away from the narrow, cluttered streets, heading for the lake’s shore. The white layer lent everything a softer, more serene quality. Ugly little details were covered or blunted, hidden away, and he could almost forget the fact people would never look him in the eye, that they gave him a huge berth when they could or scraped against the walls and the road’s dirt and filth when they could not. Even toddlers were indoctrinated enough to keep their baby mouths shut, and if they failed the parents’ lesson, the lashes came quickly, harsh and brutal.