The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “I thought Empress Amalia was dead!” His eyes did flick toward her, then withdrew quickly, as if he were afraid to look at her, afraid he might lose his resolve, his courage if he gawked for too long.

  Amalia wanted to speak, but she knew they would kill her if she did. She was certain of it.

  James sighed. “Do you want to save Athesia, Commander?”

  Nicholas stammered, “I do, Your Highness.”

  “If you pledge your oath to…her, you will plunge the realm into civil war. Empress Amalia ruled the realm and lost the war to the Parusites. Her era is over. Whatever she stood for died when Roalas was taken. This is above you and me, Commander. This is about Athesia.”

  The man looked at her again, but there was a new grimace there, one of surrender.

  Coward, traitor. She tried to steel herself so she would not cry. But could she blame him? She had let everyone down. She was not worth following. What if they asked her to lay her own life down for someone else? Would she do it?

  “We all thought Amalia had died,” James continued more softly. “And I do admit, the status of her and my legacy was never resolved before. But that’s not important anymore. The nation believes the empress died in Roalas. Their faith is now with us, with me. With you, Commander. Will you rob them of their hope? Will you forsake all the sacrifices we made in the past several months?”

  I did die then. The woman kneeling before you is Jerrica, a washerwoman. She wanted to say that, to deny her real identity, and maybe they would let her be and forget about her. Maybe she could get her miserable existence back.

  They will kill me now, she knew. The realization was one of sadness and relief.

  The door to the room clacked again. James’s stern glare shot up angrily; then his face went dark with fury. “I said no interruptions. What are you doing here? You must not be here. Leave, now.”

  “On the contrary, Your Highness, I must attend,” a new male voice said, his accent strange.

  “This does not concern you,” James warned.

  There was a swishing of loose garment. A Sirtai stepped in front of her, dressed in a white night frock, at least the male equivalent. She thought she remembered him vaguely. One of those posh people who milled around her bastard half brother, trying to wheedle favor from him.

  He looked silly in those baggy trousers and shirt, but there was a lethal aura about him now.

  The man stepped in front of her, partially blocking her, and maybe shielding her. In her fluttery state of terror, she felt relieved and distressed that some total stranger could assume such power over her.

  “What do you want, Jarman?” the emperor said. But that cold fury he had assumed with Nicholas was blunted now. The room was suddenly smaller and colder. Amalia remembered to breathe, to let air shiver down her tight, frightened throat.

  The Sirtai smacked his lips. “Please think through what you’re about to do. Think very carefully.”

  James’s mien was rigid. “I have.”

  Jarman smiled. “No, you have not.” And his islander’s eyes turned to regard her. The corner of his lips curled as if he had just told himself a joke. “Empress Amalia, hiding in your midst for so long. Almost ironic, is it not? Oh, but this is a happy occasion.”

  “This is not a happy occasion,” the bastard retorted.

  Amalia saw Xavier tense, turning the blade in his palm. Her midriff spasmed.

  “Death,” Jarman said loudly, accusingly, “will not solve anything.” He waited, his gaze still plastered to her, watching her, judging her. “She will be able to provide answers you have not,” the foreigner continued. He turned toward the emperor as if there was no hurry. “Killing her will do you no good. You might feel safer on your throne that way, but you will only have helped your enemy. Calemore will be glad for the extra rivalry and strife among the people of the realms; it will make his work easier.”

  Calemore…

  Amalia froze.

  My name is Calemore. I’m also known as the White Witch of Naum. I have a few other, fairly impressive titles, but I doubt they will mean much to you. My name is Calemore. I’m also known as the White Witch of Naum. I have a few other, fairly impressive titles, but I doubt they will mean much to you. My name is Cale-more. I’m also known as…

  This could not be.

  “The White Witch,” she spoke into the musty air. Her voice came out weak, thin, crackling.

  Jarman and James both looked at her with something like panic on their faces.

  My name is Calemore. I’m also known as…

  “Cut her bonds,” the Sirtai said, his voice trembling. James nodded dumbly to the man behind her.

  She slumped forward and wailed softly as blood rushed through her purple hands and ankles. She rubbed them fiercely, trying to knead the pain away. She could finally see behind her, a whole array of armed man and a huge bald figure with blue tattoos on his skin, an intimidating presence that stole her breath away.

  Then, for the thousandth time, the door opened again.

  A young man barged in, bleary-eyed. He shoved past the wall of armored guards. “James, I heard a commotion outside. You should have told me. Please stop this before it becomes a disaster. Now.” The man was huffing, a half-buttoned shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. Rough hands reached up, but the newcomer shrugged them off angrily.

  James blinked rapidly. “No. Stand back.” Then, he looked at this intruder. “Rob, please.” The bastard was crouching in front of her again, closer this time, rocking on the balls of his feet now. “Everyone, keep quiet. Silence.”

  He waited until only the cadence of breath filled the chamber once again, nasal whiffs, throaty pants, loud intakes, raspy sighs, whispers of air, wheezy butterflies. Amalia wondered which one belonged to her.

  “You know about Calemore, how?”

  Jarman was standing behind the bastard, a white apparition.

  James’s face turned hard. “You know about Calemore, how?” he repeated with tender urgency.

  Amalia realized if she did not speak now, she would be killed, and not because she held claim to the throne of Athesia. Something much bigger, more sinister was happening, and it threatened to loosen her bladder. She could feel the wall of fear emanating from her half brother, from that Sirtai, from the tousle-haired newcomer.

  My name is Calemore. I’m also known as…

  “I was attacked in my palace one day,” she whispered, not relishing the recollection of the pale-eyed figure hiding in her room.

  “I know the rumors. That was a Pum’be assassin in your room…” James said, trying very hard to believe his own words.

  She shook her head. “No, not an assassin. The White Witch.”

  Jarman cut them off. “Enough. We should speak about this another time.”

  “But this is—” James began, frowning, his awfully familiar countenance creased with deep confusion.

  “Listen to Jarman, James, please.” There was a brittle quality to Rob’s voice.

  Amalia realized the rest of the room was gawking stupidly, not quite sure what the topic was. Not even that murderer Xavier showed any comprehension in his swinish eyes. Only the lurking grotesque man, with his blue-inked skin, seemed to understand.

  More than she knew. That frightened her deeply.

  My name is Calemore. I’m also known as…

  Suddenly, it was no longer about who warmed the throne in Roalas anymore.

  I should not be here. I should be Jerrica, a washerwoman. Everything her father taught her all those years flooded back into her memory. The warnings, the hazy references, the wild stories, the gloomy promises, they all came back to life.

  James was bunching his fists, fighting some inner decision.

  Then, the hands relaxed and opened. She could see the white gouges in his palms where his nails had pressed. “What happens now, Jarman?”

  The Sirtai laid a friendly hand on her half brother’s shoulder. “Thank you, Your Highness. We will discuss this at length. Bu
t this is not the place, nor the time.”

  “What about her?” the emperor insisted.

  The attention shifted again. They were staring at her like a butcher might appraise a piglet before slaughter.

  “You need absolute unity. Absolute peace between you two,” the Sirtai offered at some length, and it sounded like a litany, a well-practiced speech.

  That Rob person agreed vehemently. “No division. There has never been any. You are brother and sister ruling the realm together. Together. You are fighting to cast down the yoke of oppression from the invaders. You fight for the freedom of Athesia. You are inseparable and utterly united.”

  Amalia held her breath.

  James snorted. “This is ridiculous.”

  “It’s the only way,” Rob said.

  The emperor raked his hair, hard, pulling on his scalp. “Just like that? What will the people think once the news spreads?”

  “The people will think whatever you want them to think. There must be no civil war in Athesia. Please, Your Highness.” The Sirtai was sweating, too, she noticed. There was a rank smell of fear in the room, a sharp odor of terror.

  The kind she had experienced when that pale-eyed man had come to visit her.

  The day the fate of Athesia had been sealed, when he’d taken away the book and the bloodstaff.

  “This is one huge mistake. I will regret it,” James muttered.

  “No, Your Highness, this is the bravest and most important thing you have done yet,” Jarman assured him. “This is the kind of decision your father faced in the last war. And then he put aside his wrath and personal wants for the sake of something bigger. Because he knew. He understood what was at risk.”

  Better that I drink from a cup of bile than drown in a sea of wine, her father had told her. She had often wondered about his choice, and now she understood how he must have felt.

  James was nodding absent-mindedly, fighting his inner demons. Then, he extended a hand forward. Amalia almost flinched.

  “Welcome…Sister,” he slurred.

  I will not die today, she thought incredulously. I live.

  Amalia reached out and touched his fingers. A hand like any other. “Thank you, Brother.”

  James offered a quick, maniacal smile. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”

  She tried smiling back and failed.

  Somehow, she felt her return was only temporary—and about to end soon.

  CHAPTER 39

  This used to be Leopold and Diana’s chamber, Sonya thought with some pleasure as she lounged in the huge reclining sofa, her toes propped up on a padded stool, Janice pampering her feet. Unlike the Caytoreans, who liked their estate accommodations to be a series of smaller interconnected rooms, each one serving a different purpose, the Eracian style called for a single huge space, where you would place the bed, the chairs for ladies to gossip and sew stupid pieces of cloth, an instrument someone could play, maybe a writing desk, and other trinkets.

  Naturally, Sonya had redecorated the monarchical chamber since Pacmad allowed her to use it. She had taken out the vitrine full of glassware and thin porcelain, taken out the huge pictures of Leopold’s ancestors, thrown away the gilt drapes, the suits of armor, the stuffed animal heads, and other ugly decorations the dead queen might have suffered.

  She had kept the bed. It pleased her to sleep on the vast, soft mattress that Leopold and Diana may have used to copulate and produce that dimwit child of theirs. It pleased her to enjoy her newfound status.

  “Careful, you fool,” she snapped, and winced, at the maid as she grated the top of her toenail with the file.

  “Sorry, my lady,” Janice apologized, then waited for Sonya’s wrath to fade.

  The countess wiggled her toes; the broken one still hurt now and then and made a soft clicking noise, especially when it was cold. Janice was going to repaint her toenails and scrub the skin off her heels. Then, she would massage her legs with olive oil.

  Almost reluctantly, Janice placed a wad of cotton between her pinkie toe and the next one to separate them, then began filing in slow, careful motions, fixing the nail edge on the smallest toe. That one snagged at her sock, and it irritated her.

  “What have you heard from our friends, Janice?” Sonya asked, almost casually.

  Janice’s peasant brow furrowed with concentration; it usually did that when the girl tried not to tell everything she knew, but did not dare utter a lie. She was so predictable. “They found Lady Linette banging her head against the wall this morning, ma’am. Her head was all bloody.”

  “What about Richelle?” For all she knew, Pacmad had not aborted her little whelp, despite her best insinuations. That was beginning to worry her. How could she handle that whore? How could she get rid of her? Poison her food? Something that would kill the baby? She was wondering if she should not force someone like Janice to slip something in her food during one of the visits. But that would be extremely risky, and she might lose everything. No, not Janice. Someone who could be sacrificed and would not lead Pacmad back to her. But who? An assassin, a desperate servant, maybe some bored Kataji warrior. It would be have to a dispensable person, easily missed, easily forgotten.

  The girl mumbled to herself, focusing on the tiny file. “…doing well.”

  Sonya tapped the paw-shaped armrest nervously. There was still time, though.

  There was a knock at her door. A change from only a few months ago, when the door could open at any moment, even when she was in the middle of relieving herself. But that was surely not Pacmad. He was the only one who would never bother asking for permission to enter.

  “Yes!” Sonya shouted; she hated being interrupted when she was being pampered.

  The door opened, showing one of the guild girls working at the court now. Sonya had asked Pacmad to arrange some help for her, because she could not handle all the papers and work on her own, so he had simply taken several clerks from the guilds and dumped them at the palace.

  “My lady,” the secretary said, “I bring a letter.”

  Sonya kicked at Janice, and the maid rolled backward to avoid being hit. “What letter?”

  The clerk made a stupid face. “It is from our people. Maybe a peace note?”

  The countess waved impatiently. “C’mon, give it to me. You’ve wasted half a day just standing there.”

  Once the clerk was gone and the door shut, Sonya allowed herself to inspect the letter, a heavy, oiled hide envelope, designed to withstand the rain and snow, with a huge black seal. She sniffed. Black was expensive, and only the monarch used it. The seal was a new device, vaguely familiar. Perhaps it belonged to one of the dukes, maybe those idiots Norris or Vincent. Interesting.

  She resisted the urge to break the seal and open the letter. She wanted to speculate some more. Maybe the Eracian nobles kept in Roalas had finally mustered enough wit and courage to form some kind of petition for Pacmad, probably asking him to forget all their past differences and work together toward a better future. It would only suit them, the cowards.

  Or maybe it was a reply to one of her own letters. She had sent Pacmad’s proposal north and south. The chieftain had also dispatched an envoy to see the Parusite ruler, hoping to secure an alliance with him against the Eracians. A bold but pointless move, she knew. King Sergei would never accept a peace offer from the nomads, not after he had been butchering their cousins in the Red Desert for some time.

  This letter could not have come from Parus or Athesia, though. The message had been written either in Paroth or Ubalar most likely, or an estate farther north. Maybe Bart’s crippled uncle had bothered to respond.

  She wished she knew more, but the weather had slowed the world to a crawl. Whatever news she received was outdated by several weeks, a glimpse of a past buried in frost and snow. Even now, Pacmad still kept information from her, fed her false leads, made her hesitate and doubt, because she did not have the whole picture of the actual reality around her. It amused him to see her fret and second-guess his
intentions. He liked her inner struggle, her uncertainty and misgivings, her attempts to keep the upper hand in arguments with him without risking his wrath or, worse, losing his brittle trust.

  The fact that a clerk had brought the letter to her meant she had won another small victory. Pacmad was convinced she could handle messages from the Eracians on her own. That much freedom was given to her.

  Or maybe he did not perceive them as any kind of threat. Sonya surely did not.

  There could be a war come the spring, and the Eracian armies might put on a good show, but they were weak, disorganized, inexperienced. The country had no leadership. The nobles and dignitaries in Roalas could not even decide what they wanted to do, let alone elect a successor to Leopold. Then, there could be a dozen other plots, with her peers each trying to secure the best deal for themselves.

  Still, she could not disregard them utterly. A wise negotiator never outright rejected any deal. There was always a slight chance a new Vergil or Adam might be born, and then, they would wreak havoc on her plans and ideas.

  Open the letter, she urged herself, her anticipation tingling. She looked around; there was nothing to crack the seal. She looked at Janice. The dunce was kneeling, waiting.

  “Give me that file.”

  The girl handed the tool over, and Sonya placed it over the seal and pressed, like a butter knife. The black wax broke neatly in two.

  She pulled the expensive parchment from within and read. She frowned. The manuscript was awfully familiar.

  It was Bart’s.

  With rising curiosity, she scanned the lines, her lips moving ever so slightly as she read. Well, the war council of Eracia had made some decisions after all. Duke Vincent had been selected as the new monarch. She snorted. Good luck with that. The old fool was stubborn, bitter, and conservative. His mind and heart had shut the day his son had deserted the realm with that crazy emperor, and since then, the only thing that had changed about the duke was the slow decay of his flesh. Sonya wondered what the nobles in the north of the realm would have to say to that.

  Another thing seemed quite certain. Her sorry excuse of a husband was still the lowliest member of the council, as he was forced to write the letters himself. He could not even afford to dictate his words to a scribe.