The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “Do you ever consider marrying?” he inquired.

  Amalia was silent, but Jarman nodded. “One of Sergei’s dukes, perhaps.”

  James grimaced. “Jarman, please.” He thought he saw a tear sparkle in his sister’s eye.

  “No,” she said at length. She shook her head as if banishing bad thoughts.

  Wounded men were creeping back toward the rear. Soon, it would be a chaos of wailing, weeping, screaming men flooding the camp. Throughout the night, the tent city outside Ecol would ring with the hollers and shrieks of the maimed and injured as healers poured boiling tar on their severed limbs and stitched their guts with coarse thread.

  There was no more time for self-pity. James pushed himself out of the ditch. His bodyguards milled around him. Xavier was looking grim yet satisfied as he led the command staff toward Ecol. The emperor and his sister followed, both veiled in grim thoughts. The two wizards trailed after them, looking like hounds. Perhaps they could sniff out his vulnerability and doubt like hot blood.

  James knew it would be so easy to devote himself to their fable, to let them steer him into a frightening magical future where he was an unwilling player. It would be easier on his conscience. But he would not be his father’s son if he let them do it. He may never have met Emperor Adam, but that would not stop him from trying his best to be like the most feared leader in known history.

  From everything he had heard about his father, everything Rob had told him, the man had never lost a battle. James did not intend to surrender himself to the Parusites. He would defeat Princess Sasha first, and then there would be time to discuss wild stories.

  CHAPTER 51

  Sergei entered the shell of the new temple in front of the palace square. Lieutenant Borya made a curt gesture with his mailed hand, and the bodyguards spread inside the building, walking through alternating shafts of gray shadow and dust-moted sunlight.

  The new house of worship was far from being complete, but Sergei wanted to take a look at the monument being built in his son’s name. Roughly a year ago, Vlad had been killed in the Imperial Manse, hardly two hundred paces behind his back.

  The shape of his son’s statue was only beginning to emerge from the block of stone placed in the center of the hall, much like the one being chiseled in his honor outside. The faces of various deities were roughly engraved in the multisided base, so it appeared his son stood on their shoulders. The temple would be honored in Tanid’s name, though.

  Sergei looked at the walls, still bearing marks of hammers and winter humidity, where eventually large murals of windy motifs would be placed, created in alabaster. Ladders and scaffolding hugged the interior, rising almost to the ceiling. Men hunkered on the platform at the top, eating, chatting, working with paints, unaware their king stood ten paces below. He let them be.

  He touched the emerging knee of his son’s larger-than-life sculpture, then withdrew it hesitantly, his chest tight with pain. Behind him, he heard soft footsteps. He turned around. Lady Lisa had entered and was standing just by the entrance, as if reluctant to step in.

  “Please,” he beckoned.

  She approached, a cryptic look on her face. He could not decipher it.

  “Beautiful,” she said. “I can understand the power of aesthetics in a man’s desire to be closer to his gods.”

  Sergei looked at her. “And you never felt close to our makers?”

  Lisa smiled wanly. “My life did not lend me much time for illusions.”

  He should be angry at her borderline blasphemy, but he said nothing. He remembered the feeling of impotence when the prince-heir died, the empty rage he could not direct anywhere but against his gods and goddesses. Since, he found his faith to be weaker, blunted, as if someone had removed a pane of colorful glass and left behind a bleak world drained of joy.

  Sergei wanted to stay inside awhile longer, but suddenly he could not bear it. The statue was an empty symbol, he thought. But people could never know what their king harbored in his heart, so he offered them a slab of rock instead. A magnificent piece of masonry that should convey the strength of his love and suffering.

  He exited into a spring day, clear, cool, with the sky bruising toward deep blue. The snow was gone from the rooftops and alley shadows, leaving behind a slick, tarry veneer of dirt. Men and women were busy shoveling the muck down the streets. At the same time, a small army of craftsmen was hard at work decorating Roalas for the upcoming Spring Festival. Not that Sergei had much reason to celebrate.

  News from the north was dire.

  Sasha was fighting James without success.

  Amalia was alive.

  He remembered receiving the missive, written by his own sister. Apparently, the young empress had fled the city, posing as a commoner, spent half a year lurking in her half brother’s camp. Then she was suddenly discovered and pardoned. It sounded too good to be true. He could not understand why James would have any reason to keep her alive. She symbolized the fall of Athesia; she stood against his own imposed legacy.

  But speculations were as useful as a fork for eating soup. He could fret and deliberate until his stomach churned with bitterness and regret. It would not change anything.

  Whatever dark reason Adam’s illegitimate son may have had, he ruled now with Amalia at his side, and the people seemed to like him better for it. Their union was the army’s union. The fragile cooperation between James’s Caytoreans and the loyal Athesians had been solidified, all doubts washed away like blood from a mail armor. A very smart decision, by all accounts. Perhaps he had underestimated this man, too. He seemed to have done that quite a lot lately.

  Amalia’s rebirth did rekindle his anger, his desire for revenge. He knew he must not let it cloud or rush his judgment, though. After almost two decades of waiting, he had ridden forth to avenge his father in an almost meaningless act of honor. He had really hated and feared his sire. His death had been almost a blessing. And yet, he had committed his nation and lost his son for the sake of a twenty-year-old promise. Now he must not let emotions best him.

  He would love to see Amalia dead, but this time, for the sake of Athesia, for the sake of peace. As long as she lived, the threat of a national rebellion would remain. He was well aware of the change that hung above Roalas, almost like a second smog. There was a glimmer of hope, a crusting of defiance in people’s eyes. They liked their new king well, but they could not forget Adam and his kin. That devotion would only die once Amalia died. For that matter, James was irrelevant. He was a stranger, a usurper. In fact, he served Sergei’s interests better while still alive. He could try to rally the Athesians around him with that man in power. Not with Amalia at his side, though.

  Amalia and James had to be defeated. For everyone’s sake.

  The Athesians were his people now, but he would not tolerate any treason. He would burn villages down if he had to and put everyone to the sword. Because he was their king now, and they had sworn fealty to him, and past loyalties did not matter anymore.

  Lady Lisa seemed to have taken the news stoically. She hid her emotions well. Oh, he guessed she was just as wary of this alliance as he was, for her own selfish reasons. She knew nothing of this James, and she was too well aware that her daughter’s life could have ended in a stroke of misfortune. It still could.

  Sasha’s words rolled through his mind, a constant reminder. She is the mother of the deposed empress of this realm, and her duty is to see the people of Athesia thrive. Maybe things were not as simple as he liked them to be. Maybe Lady Lisa was his enemy. He truly hoped this was not so, but he knew that life was not kind. Good luck only ever happened in fables.

  On top of that, his sister’s campaign was tottering along like a hamstrung thief. She was having no success breaking through James’s lines, and she was begging for reinforcements. He was not sure if he could spare any more soldiers for her cause. Amalia’s resurrection was threatening the tender peace he had built in Roalas. He could not afford to dispatch more troops, because he could en
d up with an indefensible city. With Emperor James married to some powerful councillor, the threat of a Caytorean intervention hovered above his head like a storm cloud.

  Athesia was turning into a curse. He wondered how Adam had managed his rule. There was one person who knew that better than anyone else. She stood at his side, but he was afraid to ask her. He had built some trust with Lady Lisa, and he was loath to shatter it.

  He considered going back into the manse, to pore over reports and messages, to bury himself in the dark minutes of ruling this province. But the day was beautiful. He deserved a respite from worry and agitation.

  “Borya, Lady Lisa and I will tour the city.”

  The man knuckled his moustache. “At once, Your Highness. You will walk?”

  Sergei nodded. The lieutenant quickly dispatched his men into the nearby alleys. They would scout for any dangers, two street corners ahead of wherever the king went, and clear any obstacles, like carts or a rabble of children.

  They exited the temple. “My husband never bothered with a security detail,” Lisa observed as she stepped onto a raised sidewalk.

  “Your husband will be remembered for many generations. I doubt my legacy will be as grand,” he offered humbly and climbed. The wooden planks creaked in protest. Half a dozen armored men walking just ahead of him were probably the reason for that.

  “It is up to you to decide that, Your Highness,” she said, hinting at the peace idea again. She was relentless.

  Ipatiy cursed as his foot slipped and he staggered off the sidewalk, landing in the mud. Sergei ignored the squire.

  “I am not certain the people of Roalas love me as much as they loved Emperor Adam.”

  Lisa clasped her hands in front of her. “He gave them his soul. That is all.”

  Sergei thought of his wife, his children, his realm. Emperor Adam had abandoned his former life to create his little empire, while he was here because he was bound by duty and honor. He had responsibility for his nation, from Palotar to Dusaban, from the little town of Bridgen all the way south to Mardoan. He could not just let whim and pride guide him. He might appear a coward who did not trust his people, but his sudden, unlucky death on the streets of Roalas, on its raised sidewalks, would serve no purpose. Some people might cheer his demise, others would lament, but the whole of the realms would be plunged into chaos. He could feel it in his bones.

  War is simple when you have no choice, he thought. So what am I doing here?

  The fighting in the north was only a portion of his worries. He had many others. The priests would not leave him be, and now, there was a rumor of some fanatic raising his own army in Keron. The man was gathering a strong following around him, and even Under-Patriarch Evgeny seemed somewhat concerned. He might have to inspect this story one day.

  Sergei still did not know what to do with the many hundreds of imprisoned Athesian warriors. He was mulling calling on his dukes again. He had remnants of the woe council filing protests and clamoring for his official support. The newly elected monarch was dead, and all the power was in the hands of Viceroy Bartholomew. The Eracians were terrified he might do something unpredictable and dangerous, or maybe even get himself killed. Sending him to the front line as a representative of the ruler had suited them all too well, not so when he was at the helm of the realm. If he died, with the succession line unclear, it would mean more war in their already torn country.

  Sergei was also planning on entering new negotiations with the High Council of Trade, trying to win them over, despite their vehement support for Emperor James. And he had Lady Lisa to contend with. Was she a friend or a foe?

  At least back home, everything was quiet. That was his one consolation.

  Citizens bowed and curtsied as he walked by, pausing in their daily chores. Mounted men on their donkeys and mules would dismount and remove their caps, waiting for him to pass. Carriers and grocers put down their goods and watched him warily, with that mix of expected anxiety and questionable loyalty. Only children ignored him, grubby little street urchins who had no fear and no respect for anything. Maybe they were wiser than everyone else.

  Soon the sidewalks ended. It was muck all the way from there. His entourage stopped. There was a large ocher-colored puddle running across the street. Roalas’s citizens were tiptoeing through the filth. His soldiers looked confused.

  One of Borya’s men walked to a nearby man and forced him to take his coat off. He was just about to toss it on the ground so the king could walk over, when Lady Lisa raised her voice. “No, wait.”

  The man looked at her with annoyance on his square red face. She walked past him as if he were just a thickheaded servant and crossed the puddle, brown water soaking her dress, her shoes, her stockings.

  “It’s just rainwater and mud,” she said.

  Sergei nodded at the bodyguard. Reluctantly, he returned the coat to his owner.

  “Thank you, my lady,” the man mumbled and hurried off.

  “That is how you end up never bothering with a security detail,” she remarked.

  The people should be grateful I let them keep their heads on their shoulders, that I feed them and clothe them and protect them. They should be grateful that they can live their lives, a part of his mind ranted. But without dignity, they will despise me, the other part piped in.

  He knew he had a lot to learn about Athesia, about its classless society, the fact any commoner could hold any position in the city. It was a strange notion, and it went against everything he had been taught his whole life. But maybe, it was the key to his campaign. Maybe peace started with the little things. Or maybe Lisa was just mocking him, testing his resolve.

  Sasha’s words reverberated inside his head, fighting all those other worries and doubts and nags and little concerns.

  Sergei stepped through the water, the brown soup slicking off his boots with ease.

  Eventually, he found himself just above the South Gate, staring at the fields. Thousands of men and women were hard at work, upturning the earth, planting. It was early in the season, and there could still be frosts that might kill the crops, but he had to risk it. He had a huge army to feed, and the Borei had their olifaunts.

  Then, he saw a column of those gray animals slugging up the South Route. Captain Speinbate was returning to the capital from one of his countryside journeys, quelling little rebellions and collecting taxes.

  An idea struck him.

  “Borya, make sure Lady Lisa gets back to the palace safely. Please provide an adequate escort.” He looked at the woman. “You will excuse me, but I must attend to some personal business.”

  She had noticed the mercenary host, too. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “Bring Captain Speinbate to me,” he instructed the gate sergeant. The man saluted and walked back to his post.

  A pleasant breeze tainted with the smell of dung in the fields was ruffling his hair when the princedom governor clambered up to the walkway above the gate, grinning, his gold-capped teeth shining. “Your Highness!” he greeted cheerfully.

  “How was your expedition?” The king leaned against the parapet.

  “Most profitable. I have secured three chests of silver and two stone of gold coins. You would be amazed where all these peasants hide their wealth. One had his buried at the bottom of a cesspit, tricky bastard.”

  Sending a Borei to secure taxes might not win him the love of the populace, he thought, but he had to find some way of keeping the mercenaries busy. He could not afford to leave them on their own, unemployed. They cost a fortune, so at least they should be generating revenue for him.

  Until he remembered that paid soldiers were hired for killing.

  “I have a new task for you, Captain.”

  Doubt washed over the mercenary’s too-honest face. “Your Highness.”

  Sergei turned and pointed north. “Princess Sasha is engaged in heavy fighting against the Athesian rebels near Ecol. This is a great opportunity to put your troops to battle and prove once again the renow
ned fighting skills of the Borei.”

  The smile on Captain Speinbate’s face never wavered, but Sergei could see the muscles tensing in his jaw. “War is our profession,” he said almost piously.

  Sergei recalled Lisa’s symbolic sacrifice from earlier. Removing the Borei from the countryside might win him favor with the locals. He would have to find a different way to finance the realm, something that did not remind the small folk of their empress’s defeat and humiliation.

  “I expect you to march in three days, with full provisions. You will take the entire Borei garrison. A regiment of my men will accompany you.”

  The captain raked his hair. At his side, that strange man Blue-eyed Geert was waiting patiently, with a face like a wooden log. “What is our mission?”

  Sergei snorted. “That is quite obvious. To bring about a quick defeat of the rebel force. You will gain entrance to Ecol and hold the city. Preferably, you will destroy the enemy troops and take captive both Emperor James and Empress Amalia. Or you will kill them and bring their bodies to me, intact.” I will not trust Amalia’s death again until I see her corpse.

  The Borei frowned. “So she lives then?”

  Sergei sighed. “Yes, it would seem so, Captain.”

  Speinbate cheered up. “Well, I am now a noble son of Parus. I will gladly defend my realm.”

  Sergei had to force himself to remain civil before the mercenary. “Indeed. Your payment will be in accordance with the expected homage. You are dismissed.”

  He remained on the wall, basking in the sun, looking at the world wake from its winter slumber. Spring was a time of hope, of rejuvenation, but all he could see was more death ahead. His conquest never seemed so far from being over.

  His head spun with thoughts, Sasha’s warnings, Lisa’s pleas to be courageous and halt the killing, the messages that promised bloodshed and suffering and turmoil. What should he do? He could not rely on the books to tell him what Pyotr had felt or what Emperor Adam had done in his time. That luxury was denied him. There was only one course of action.