Then, there was the obvious threat, of course. The Eracians, her fellow countrymen, in all their impotence, were giving the tribesmen one last chance to withdraw from Somar back to their lands. That way, they would be spared. If they refused, they would be crushed and their homeland attacked. How pitiful. Such a sorry letter. She knew she should not have expected more.
And this coming from Athesia, it must be months old.
She looked at the date. Very recent, signed merely four weeks ago. In Ubalar? What was Bart doing in Ubalar? Had he left Athesia and gone back? Why had he not headed for his mother at the Barrin estate? That way, he could have a woman at his side who respected him, sort of.
Finally, she looked at the signature. It read, Lord Bartholomew, Viceroy of Eracia, in the name of His Majesty Monarch Vincent.
Viceroy? she thought stupidly. Confusion, mixed with panic, was building in the back of her mind.
She peeled the two pieces of broken wax from the envelope and held them together, looking at the seal. She understood the right half was the duke’s coat of arms. The left bottom quadrant had the symbols for war, which meant the monarch was in exile. The remaining section bore a small, innocent device, somewhat smeared. Her stupid husband was right-handed, so he must have slammed the wooden seal with less force there and then jiggled it, ruining the print.
Bart was a clerk, but he could not even stamp his letters properly.
But then she recognized the device. It was the emblem of House of Barrin, without her half.
Then, it all clicked together.
She gasped loudly, dropping the wax halves. Her arms trembled. Janice shrunk back further, looking afraid. Lord Bartholomew, viceroy, not a count anymore. Second to the monarch only. And her own coat of arms was missing from the seal. Bart had erased her.
Bart is a viceroy now? How? How?
“Leave me,” she managed to say. Janice scampered out quickly.
Sonya rose and began pacing round the room, over expensive carpets, blobs of cotton stuck between her toes, making them splayed, making her steps look awkward and wooden. She spun when she reached the corner of the lofty chamber, paced the other way, spun again.
What was happening? How could this be?
While she was rotting in this prison, her husband had managed to secure himself the most enviable position in the realm. He was the hand of the monarch, an old, decrepit fool who could hardly manage a day without soiling his pants. Bart, who used to be the laughingstock of the Privy Council, was now in charge of all of the realm, and he was leading the Southern Army.
This was impossible.
Instantly, she knew this letter must never reach Pacmad. As if holding a venomous snake, she tossed the letter into the fire of the nearest of three hearths. Then, in a moment of panic, she realized she should have read the message again, just to be sure. But it was too late now. The paper had shriveled and curled into a tiny strip, like bacon.
Breathe, she told herself. She must think. She could not allow fear to grip her again. She was in control of the situation. Except she was not in control. She was a hostage at the palace to some savage, while her brave husband was fighting for the realm. Now, his seal no longer bore her own family tree, and that deeply worried her. Maybe he thought she had died in the attack?
I must write back, she thought. And paused. Could she let him know she was alive? What if Pacmad discovered her letter? Or worse, what if he read Bart’s reply? What if Bart never bothered to respond? What if he hated her and had chosen to ostracize her? Maybe he knew she was alive and simply no longer wanted her around, and this was the perfect excuse to get rid of her? Maybe he thought she was a traitor?
She had to spin a lie. A beautiful, solid, foolproof lie, for when Pacmad asked her. She would have to be ready for her captor. She had to buy herself time to think, to decide what to do next.
Sonya shook her hands angrily, trying to keep the growl in her throat from erupting. She must remain calm. Pacmad must not know anything was wrong. For a moment, she felt like vomiting, but if she did that, she might as well tell her blue-eyed jailer everything.
Whatever the outcome, she could not let this letter go unanswered. She had to know more. She just had to. Without additional information, she would be just as crippled as Karsten or as stupid as that Ludwig boy. She could not allow reality to gurgle by while she sat back, helpless.
Sonya went back to the sofa and picked up the wax. Keep the pieces? No. She flicked them into the flames, and they sputtered and hissed and bubbled and became two slugs slithering through white ashes. She closed her eyes and began inhaling deeply through her nostrils, then exhaling when her vision misted red from the lack of fresh air. Again and again. Slowly, she calmed down.
She was not going to panic. That was what whiny bitches did. She was not going to fret, or worry, or wallow in misery. She would do what she did best—manipulate men. Bart had given up on her? Maybe. She would convince him otherwise. She would do it with all the style and class and ruthlessness befitting a vicereine.
The urgency to master Pacmad was there, though, nagging like a beggar child pulling on her dress. Until she subverted him completely, she could not be entirely free with her decisions and choices, and that meant the world would make its grunts and spasms, and she would be forced to watch and react. Insufferable. The challenge was no longer entertaining, enticing, empowering. It was stifling her, slowing her down.
She must break Pacmad, and soon.
Her husband had surprised her, and that evoked a strange emotion she had never thought she would feel for him. Grudging respect. It was like discovering a new dark side to your soul, kept hidden all these years. It distracted her and terrified her.
So what now? What could she do? Whatever her choice, it would have to be brilliant. It would have to surpass that time she had fucked a guild master to obtain the exclusive rights to peat extraction in the bogs near the Emorok Hills. It would have to be more closely guarded than the secret of her infertility. It would be more spectacular than the kidnapping of Count Erwin’s son. She still remembered the pallid skin, the doll-like look the child had as he bobbed in the well where he had been drowned.
Sonya had to make sure that Pacmad never learned Bart, formerly the count of Barrin, her husband, was the one leading the defense of Eracia. If he did, that meant a death sentence for her. She would be used as a bargaining chip and lose her freedom and wealth. She had to ensure the Kataji chieftain only vaguely regarded him as one of Leopold’s lackeys. This also meant her name must not be associated with any correspondence. So far, she had managed to avoid putting herself in a difficult situation, but the Eracians might yet arrive in Somar to plead and bargain with the nomads, and some might recognize her, and then, rumors would start, and questions would be asked, and she would be condemned.
In one fell swoop, her life had taken a turn for the worse. What next? Should she give up her ambition of becoming Pacmad’s first concubine? There was power in that, but Bart was now a viceroy, and Eracia was her homeland, after all. Who would she want to win?
The choice was obvious.
She dragged her feet through the thick hair of the carpet, loosening the wads of cotton between her toes. She approached the door and pried it open. On Pacmad’s orders, one of his warriors stood guard there, but there was also a clerk to handle any trifles she might need. Like now.
The soldier turned lazily, ogling her up and down. He had a thick mane of greasy hair, which had probably never been washed. She ignored the beast.
This was a different girl, Sonya noted, and was glad for that. She did not want the gossipy girls to know too much. “I want the guild headmistresses summoned to the palace. Schedule appointments, one after another, half an hour each. Now.”
The woman bobbed a quick curtsy. “It will be done, my lady.” She scurried off, the soldier’s eyes following her rump’s motion.
Sonya closed the door and went back into the monarchical chamber.
There was so much
to do. She had to plan how to sabotage the Kataji defenses, and the women of the city, widows all of them, would help her. As the vicereine of the realm, it was her duty to protect the land and its people.
CHAPTER 40
James listened patiently as Master Guilliam lectured.
“…four hundred winch cranks to fully load, but then it will fire the missile six hundred paces away. The weapon needs a horse cart, and four men to operate, two on the winches, one to aim, and one to handle the munition. The shooter can angle the bow up ten degrees, in increments of one.”
“What is it called?” the emperor asked, curious.
The legendary crossbow maker grimaced. “I call it the Slicer.”
Amalia was standing nearby, her face thoughtful. “Master Engineer Reese has made a similar invention in Roalas. An all-metal catapult, smaller, more compact, far more powerful than the wooden ones. He called it…Fucker.” Someone chortled.
Master Guilliam harrumphed, waving dismissively. “He stole my idea.”
Rob leaned toward James, smoke and hot breath wreathing from his lips. “A rumor says the two were more than just friends interested in ballistics. One day, their relationship soured. The name is not accidental.” James made a blank face. “So I was told by the soldiers, that is,” Rob added.
The emperor tried to suppress a snigger pulling on his jowls, so he stared at the contraption. It was a big thing, a crossbow for giants, with a massive frame, a bow three paces wide, and a massive toothed rack-and-pinion mechanism bolted on top of its spine, made from cold steel. The artillery crew was waiting patiently for the demonstration.
“Go ahead,” James said.
He moved back with the rest of his retinue and watched. They quickly set up the weapon. One of them raised a tiny flag, estimating the wind angle and speed, then pulled on a wooden lever, ever so slightly changing the azimuth. Next, he sighted the target using a simple cross-hairs device and adjusted the elevation. Two other soldiers were busy cranking the bow, pulling the thick string back toward its lock groove, counting the turns. The fourth man was holding an arrow that looked like a spear with a feathered end, only it had leather flaps instead of goose fletching.
The morning was brisk and clear. Snow had fallen through the night and covered the world, leaving only blobs and odd, soft shapes sticking through the brilliant drift. A good distance away, a wooden frame had four pig carcasses hanging, one behind the other.
As he waited, James stole a glance at his sister.
They ruled together now.
He had expected his soldiers to rebel and protest. He had expected the people to clamor and ask for his or her blood, to disbelieve the story, to be angry and feel deceived. He had expected a civil war to break out in the streets of Ecol, with Athesians rising against the Caytorean invader, as he feared he would be portrayed now. Nothing of the sort. Just as Jarman had promised, the family unity had given the folk a fresh wave of pure hope, the kind they had not felt in years, maybe decades. James had been forced to declare another week of celebration, for Amalia’s sake.
She seemed to have taken it all rather well. She still looked somewhat confused, maybe dazed. James wondered how he would feel if he lost his father’s realm and then was forced to live in the shadow of a half sister or half brother he had never known, wondering if he might be found the next morning and murdered, disposed of quietly. She must also be trying to cope with her immense luck. Had the Sirtai not arrived in Athesia, had they not somehow convinced James of the benefits of keeping her alive, he would have killed her. Now, he was being brave, like his father, and he wondered if he might have doomed his nation and himself.
They danced like a pair of cripples, the two of them, trying to bridge the gap of a lifetime apart, trying to put aside their ambitions and schemes and mistrust, grasping and groping, hoping to somehow sort this mess out. The wizard promised him a fantastic apocalypse, while he had the Red Caps getting ready for war just days away.
Still, their meetings were brief and awkward and mostly silent. There was bitterness there, and animosity, and he could not blame Amalia for feeling all those. After all, she had lived all her years being prepared for her rule one day, knowing she would continue her father’s legacy. He had grown chasing criminals in a forest, never really knowing he might be an emperor.
There would be time for reconciliation, he thought. The first thing he wanted to do was get his wife’s opinion on Amalia. Her female intuition would help him put everything in the right perspective. Rheanna’s advice would tell him what he ought to do next. But the snows would delay the messages for months yet, and so he had to cope as best as he could, with Rob and Jarman and that strange Lucas as his guides.
The small folk and the army were still drunk on the glory of Amalia’s return. The town streets buzzed with stories and song. The nation thought the brother-and-sister pair invincible. And they just might be. All doubts of his legacy were removed now. With Amalia embracing his rule, he had become an Athesian in blood and spirit. No one would call him a bastard or usurper anymore.
Perhaps that would also help him with his Caytorean-born troops, as well as the High Council. He had leverage now. Perhaps he could use the sudden family union to everyone’s benefit and make sure that Athesia came out of it stronger than ever.
One day, he might actually get to know his half sister as a person, too.
The artillery crew was ready for his signal. He smiled weakly. “Proceed.”
Wordlessly, they made the last adjustments. The soldier who had sighted and aimed earlier pulled another large lever and released the string from its groove. It whipped forward faster than the eye could follow, and the giant missile sprang away. Tiny slivers of chipped wood fell off the Slicer. The metal rail heated to dull orange before fading back to muted gray.
The arrow crashed into the pigs with a tremendous force, throwing them up in the air. The frame held, but it swayed.
A horseman trotted off to inspect the damage, then returned, his horse’s flanks peppered in crystal powder. “Direct hit, Your Highness…es.” He looked at James and Amalia in turn, looking ever so slightly uncomfortable. “Went through all four.”
James pursed his lips. Four bodies, pierced clean through. This meant that if the Slicer fired accurately into a marching crowd of infantry, it could kill maybe half a dozen soldiers with a single missile.
“Very good,” he praised.
The crew seemed content. Master Guilliam was wearing a somber expression, as if the impressive result was nothing out of the ordinary. He might still be put off by Amalia’s remark.
Master Hector was scowling in the direction of the target, probably calculating the odds and angles of using a dozen of those weapons side by side against a Parusite charge. Xavier was cleaning his fingernails, not really interested in the big, impersonal machinery.
His two Sirtai advisers did not seem interested in this nonmagical weaponry either. They were standing aside, talking in their foreign language, a respectable space clear around them.
Commander Adrian of the Seventh was also attending the demonstration, and he looked quite pleased. As one who had surrendered to James, he did not seem burdened by the duality of rulers. In fact, he seemed quite content.
“Impressive,” he piped in.
James turned toward Rob, who was keeping to the side and somewhat quiet. “James,” Rob called when he noticed, his voice resonating with urgency, “come with me.”
“Right now?” James looked at his friend. There was no cigarette pressed between his lips now. He looked pensive, the same he had been ever since that night Amalia was discovered. The emperor flicked a quick glance at his sister. She arched a brow that indicated she did not like Rob’s demand but would not interfere in their dynamic.
“Yes, now, please.” Rob was already pacing away. Grudgingly, James left his officers and his half sister and followed his friend toward the field tents. Soldiers of all kinds were standing round small fires, talking, laughing, hands
snugged under armpits, feet stomping the white earth. They saluted smartly at the emperor. Rob was leading away.
“Speak,” James demanded after they stepped off the beaten cart track into the thick drift that surrounded the practice grounds.
Rob was looking toward Amalia. She was talking to Master Guilliam again, and he was gesturing with precise arm movements, like only someone who designed killing machines could.
“There are several things you need to know. I should have told you sooner, but then, would you have believed me if I’d started talking about wizards and magic and legendary persons that even books do not mention?”
James had no idea what his friend was trying to tell him, but there had to be a good reason. Rob always seemed to know what he wanted to say. “Most likely not.”
Rob sighed. His hand reached into the pocket where he kept his cigarettes, but it came out empty. “I did tell you about my grandfather serving Emperor Adam.”
James nodded. “Yes. Briefly.”
“I also mentioned how your title was wrong, because the realms already had their supreme ruler. You remember, of course.”
Well, the constant talks and lectures with Jarman made sure he could not forget, even if he wanted.
“Get to the point, Rob,” James pressed. He did not like this.
His friend pointed at Amalia. “Your sister knows a great deal about Calemore. I did not know that before. If I had known, I would have told you earlier. But the threat Jarman and Lucas talk about is real. This White Witch is real. You should heed their advice.”
James was silent for a moment. “Why? What else do you know?”
Rob closed his fist and touched it gently against his lips. “I once read a book that—”
Something warm splashed James’s face, made him blink instinctively. Warm and tangy, and it smelled like copper. He wiped his cheek, and the fingers came off red. He looked at Rob, waiting for him to finish his sentence, but his friend just sagged to his knees and keeled over.
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 40