The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  “Revenge,” the man said. “That’s all. You needn’t lecture me about how it won’t help.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” Elektra felt an odd coursing in her veins. She was no longer afraid. Even if this man killed her, it would be while she received the highest blessing from the Goddess. It would be a martyr’s death, and she would join Holy Vica in the halls of paradise. Still, she wasn’t ready to die just yet. “Not only will it not help you feel better, it will not help you thwart my mother. I am in a far better position than you to do that.”

  “You should hear her out, Braeden.” The boy knelt in front of Elektra and cut the ropes binding her ankles with a short knife. She whimpered as the sensation returned to her feet in a rush of prickling pain. “Give me your hands,” the boy said and she looked into his eyes. They were large and dark, though not warm, but she saw he wouldn’t hurt her. She let him cut the ropes around her wrists.

  Elektra looked up at the man named Braeden until he met her eyes, then said, “I promise not to escape. Let’s talk about how I can help you.”

  Anton

  Anton liked spending time with his friends, but sitting in school all day made him tired. He left the Maxima’s schoolroom with Maryna one afternoon.

  “I’m worried about the count,” he said.

  “Is he not recovering well?” She frowned. Maryna was just like her father, Prince Kendryk. Very nice, and always concerned about others.

  “He’s doing all right. He’s even able to walk and he’ll be riding soon. But he’s always in a terrible mood, and drinking too much.” Anton shifted the heavy stack of books to his other arm. He would be up late studying tonight. Natalya Maxima had insisted that both Maryna and he learn the Ancient Tongue, even though Anton didn’t see any use for it.

  “Perhaps a doctor should see him.” Maryna stopped as they reached the gates to the Maxima’s palace. From here, she would continue to her parents’ home while Anton went back inside. He always walked Maryna this far until her guards took over.

  “He hates doctors,” Anton said. “He almost killed the last one when he told him he needed to cut back on the liquor.”

  “Oh dear,” Maryna said, with a nod to her guards, both of whom greeted Anton with friendly grins. “What about Natalya Maxima? Surely he likes her.”

  Anton sighed. “Maybe.” He didn’t want to explain how seeing the Maxima made the count even more upset. Just the sight of a beautiful woman made him worry that none of them would ever like him again. Anton knew that wasn’t true, but there was no telling that to the count in the state he was in. “I’ll come up with something.”

  He watched Maryna walk down the street, still so tiny between the two tall guards. He hoped she would be all right. After his rescue from the empress’s dungeon, Prince Kendryk hadn’t been in Allaux more than a month before leaving again, taking Maryna’s mother along. They had to go to Zeelund to arrange something Anton didn’t quite understand.

  Maryna had begged to go too, but they told her they could travel more quickly without children. Anton was happy she was here, but saw she was taking her father’s absence hard. She’d always been close to him and was anxious to have him nearby as much as possible. Before turning the corner, Maryna turned back and waved at Anton. He waved back before returning to the Maxima’s garden.

  He dawdled along the path, watching water spring from the fountain and run back down over a marble statue portraying a woman from a story in the Holy Scrolls. But the statue made him blush, and Anton didn’t remember a story that ever made him do that. Thanks to Natalya Maxima, he’d studied all the stories of the Scrolls much more thoroughly than he’d ever wanted to. Anton looked away from the statue and went inside. It was cool and dark in here; the floors and walls were of marble, hung with silk and rich tapestries.

  By now, Anton was used to it all, so he didn’t stop to gawk. He took the stairs two at a time, stopped in his room, and dumped his books on the bed before going to the count’s chamber. The count had a suite inside the palace and Anton had a room of his own. It looked like something only a prince would live in, and Anton still couldn’t believe it was all for him. There was even a rope he pulled if he needed anything, and one of several maids, each prettier than the last, would appear and bring him whatever he asked for. And yet, he missed being out in the field, riding Skandar all day and fighting in battles. He hoped before too long he could do that again.

  It was dark in the count’s room, the curtains drawn at the windows, and around the big bed. “I’m here,” Anton shouted by way of warning, throwing open the curtains at the windows. He opened a window wide, since it was hot and didn’t smell too good. Then he went to the bed and pulled those curtains open too.

  “Go away,” the count grumbled into his pillow.

  “You know I won’t.” Anton tried to sound cheerful, though he was sick of doing this every day. “It’s time for you to get up, have a wash, and walk around a little.”

  “I don’t want to today,” the count said, opening his one eye, then closing it against the bright light.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Anton said, pouring water into a cup from a pitcher on the table. “You have to. Otherwise you’ll be here forever and I would hate that.”

  The count pulled himself up and leaned against a pillow half-seated, still blinking against the light. He took the cup and drank. “Why do you stick around?” he grumbled. “You should have gone to Maladena when you had the chance. You’d be working for a real general by now, not to mention having a pretty girl keeping you warm at night.”

  “Too late for that.” Anton kept his tone brisk while he poured water into a basin, and tried to forget about Maladena and Lora. He hoped she was doing well there, but remembering her made him sad. He’d made the mistake of telling the count about his shipboard romance, and now he liked to needle Anton about it.

  “Come sit in this chair,” Anton said. The count needed a shave and wouldn’t do it himself. Anton suspected he didn’t like looking in a mirror with the one eye gone. Anton was used to it by now, but the count avoided mirrors, so he hadn’t yet become accustomed to it.

  “Don’t want to.” The count threw the cup at the wall. Water splashed the silk wallpaper, but the cup bounced off with a thunk, and rolled across the floor. That was why Anton had long ago asked the maids to bring only pewter and tin cups, so the count couldn’t destroy any more of the Maxima’s fine crystal.

  “Don’t care,” Anton said, grabbing a dish of soap and the razor. “If you’re difficult, I’ll call the Maxima.”

  The count turned pale. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.”

  “Fine.” The count hauled himself out of bed and limped across the room.

  Anton almost ran to help him, but made himself stand still. The count managed well enough on his own, and he’d build up his strength better that way. “We’ll go to the stables today,” he said, once he had the count in the chair. “Cid misses you.”

  That made the count sit up straighter. “Do you suppose I can get there?”

  “Sure,” Anton said, scraping the razor along the count’s cheek. He wasn’t at all sure, but they needed to try. “We’ll go slow, and take the back way, so you can sit down as often as you need to.” He didn’t say that going through the servant’s quarters meant the count wouldn’t run into anyone he knew who’d feel sorry for him, and look at him in that way he hated.

  The count was silent for a long time. Once Anton finished shaving him, and handed him a towel, he dried his face and said, “All right. I’ll try it. I’m sick of being stuck here too. Even if no woman ever looks at me again, I can still fight, don’t you think?”

  “Women will look at you again.” They already did, though Anton knew the count wasn’t thinking about the maids who brought his food, cleaned his room, and made eyes at him, same as always. “And the sooner you get back to riding Cid and practicing with your pistols, the sooner you can get back into the fight.”

  Lennart

>   Lennart threw down his quill, stood up from his desk, and walked to the window. Midsummer, the gardens in full, fragrant bloom. A perfect time to launch an invasion, with long days, the seas smooth as glass, and Brynhild Mattila muddling around northern Kronland. He wished he had more information about what was going on between her and Teodora, but his spies provided only theories.

  He hated sitting at a desk all day. But he needed to handle this part before getting into the field. He expected his ruling council to give in to his requests, but he owed them an exact accounting of his plans and what he needed to implement them.

  Lennart had also promised not to make a move on Kronland until he received financial guarantees from Galladium, and there had been no word on that front. Princess Gwynneth had sent a letter weeks before, saying she and Kendryk were headed for Zeelund to arrange funding. He reckoned between travel time and dealing with bankers, it might take a few months more.

  But as the months dragged on, Lennart worried Mattila would bleed all of Kronland dry before he got there. He reminded himself that wasn’t his concern; the rulers there needed to take responsibility for their own kingdoms. The way he saw it, the Kronlander’s dithering had ultimately caused Arryk’s defeat, but he wouldn’t let it happen to him. Lennart would take a more forceful approach from the start.

  The door opened after a soft knock. Ludvik Meldahl entered, bearing another sheaf of papers. “Not today,” Lennart said. “I’ve had enough.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.” Meldahl dumped the papers onto Lennart’s desk. “Why don’t you go, Your Highness, and I’ll sort through these. Maybe I can get the pile down to half by morning.”

  “I probably should,” Lennart said, though he stayed at the window. He needed to spend more time with Raysa, with her still far too shy and frightened of him. He’d told Gwynneth he wanted a docile wife, but he didn’t want a fearful one. Lennart didn’t deny it; things between him and his bride were still awkward. He had expected no better at first, but hoped matters might change once she settled into her new home.

  He’d barely so much as talked to her before the wedding, with all the affairs of state that needed attending to first. Queen Ottilya had insisted on monopolizing his time. Lennart wasn’t sure if she was trying to keep him from frightening her daughter or if she wanted to make his life miserable. No question she wasn’t his first choice as mother-in-law; he’d rather fight her than be family.

  “You should go.” Meldahl already sat at Lennart’s desk, his blond head bent over the papers piled high on it. “The queen is in the garden, playing the lute. Every young man who walks by makes eyes at her. You must put a stop to that.”

  “You’re right,” Lennart said. “What is she playing?” He liked music, but of the brisk military sort, or merry drinking songs.

  “Who knows?” Meldahl waved his hand. “Ask her.”

  “I think I will.” Lennart opened the tall glass door leading to the garden. It was warm, so he left his doublet unbuttoned and paused beside a fountain, trailing his hand in the cool water. Then he stood up and listened. He heard the faint plucking of the strings well enough, so he followed the sound to its source.

  The queen sat in a pavilion, surrounded by silk cushions and a bevy of Sanovan ladies. Lennart didn’t approve of so many Sanovans gathered in his country, but he wouldn’t deny Raysa her friends. This was hard enough for her.

  He stopped in the pavilion doorway. Raysa’s head was bent over the instrument, so she didn’t see him standing there. It wasn’t until a few of her ladies jumped to their feet and curtsied, that she looked up and stopped playing.

  “Don’t stop,” Lennart said, with a nod to the ladies. He had been trying to make them understand that he didn’t insist upon the same protocol they were accustomed to, but so far he’d had no luck. Perhaps he’d have to formally order them to be less formal.

  He took a seat on a cushion across from Raysa and gave an encouraging nod. Raysa met his eyes briefly, then went back to playing. When she finished, Lennart said, “Very nice,” though it had just been a lot of tinny, mournful plucking. Not the least bit merry. Then he turned to the ladies. “I’d like to speak to the queen alone.”

  They scurried out, exchanging meaningful glances. He wondered how he might get rid of them for good. Perhaps he could draft them into the military.

  “I’m sorry,” Raysa said, when the others were out of earshot, though they still stood far too close for his liking, staring and whispering. “They’re dreadfully silly.”

  “I’ll send ‘em away if you like.” He wanted to, but hoped she’d take it as a joke if she didn’t agree.

  “Would you?” She laid the lute on the bench next to her and folded her hands in her lap. “Mother insisted I bring them, but they aren’t my friends, and none of them like it here.”

  “I’m happy to do it, though you can do it as well. You’re the queen, you know.” He grinned at her. He’d held an elaborate coronation for her a month past, but she still didn’t seem used to the idea. The Estenorian people weren’t either, regarding any Sanovan on their soil with suspicion. It didn’t help that Raysa showed no inclination toward public appearances or any more socializing than was absolutely required.

  “I suppose I could, but I’d feel bad and mother would be angry.”

  “So let her be angry. What’s she going to do?” It had become clear to Lennart during his time in Novuk that Queen Ottilya was fond of her daughter. But she hid it well, mostly by shouting at her and bullying her relentlessly. It had angered Lennart, and the moment they were married, he made it clear to Ottilya he’d no longer tolerate that. Still, it would take time for his wife to realize her mother didn’t have any power over her.

  Raysa nearly smiled. “You’re right. I’d still rather you did it, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. You won’t be lonely?”

  “I’ll need attendants, but one or two will be enough. And it seems the people here will accept me more quickly if my ladies are Estenorian; don’t you agree?”

  “You’re right.” Lennart said, surprised and pleased. “Do you have anyone in mind?” He doubted she’d become acquainted with much of the nobility here.

  “No.” She looked down again. “Someone kind and quiet. I can’t abide all the chattering.” She looked back up, her fair skin flushed. She really was lovely.

  “I know someone then,” Lennart said. “Meldahl’s daughter Silvya is of an age with you and just like her father: smart, sensible and quiet. I’ll arrange an introduction if you like.”

  “All right.” Raysa’s voice was so soft he could barely hear it. “I trust you.”

  He wished it were true. Hoped it was true.

  Elektra

  Elektra held her breath until Braeden spoke.

  “All right,” he said. “We can talk. Karil, get biscuit and cheese out of that saddlebag, and bring the young lady some water.”

  “It’s Your Grace,” Elektra said, feeling the need to establish her proper authority without delay.

  Braeden stared at her. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  Elektra stared back at him coolly. “Not at all. I may be your prisoner, but I’m still the Archduchess Elektra and everyone refers to me as Your Grace. Kindly do so from now on.”

  “You’re a little too much like your mother,” Braeden growled. “Maybe I should kill you after all. I swear, if I let you go, and you turn out to be like her, I’ll kill you later.”

  “Please do.” Elektra rubbed her wrists as the sensation returned more painfully than she might have liked. “I pray to Vica every day that I won’t turn out like her. It would be a tragedy.”

  “That’s more like it.” Braeden looked less menacing now. “Fine then, I’ll call you Your Grace if it makes you less stroppy.”

  “Thank you,” Elektra said primly, both to Braeden and to the boy, Karil, who presented her with some weevily-looking biscuit and a hunk of cheese. She resisted wrinkling her nose at the food, remembering that
she was a hardened veteran of a long military campaign. She bit off a large piece of biscuit and chewed, trying hard to imagine she noticed nothing wormy wriggling in it.

  “Better wash that down fast.” Karil handed her a tin cup.

  “Mmph,” she said and took a long drink of water, washing the horrid mouthful down before she spit it out. She hoped it stayed down.

  Both Braeden and Karil seemed impressed. Good.

  “Now,” she said, laying the food in the grass after deciding she wasn’t that hungry after all. “Let’s talk about my mother. I doubt very much sending her my head would bother her in the least. She doesn’t care for me at all. In fact, I don’t think she usually remembers she has children.”

  “I still think it would send a message,” Braeden said.

  “Just a message that you’re unhinged.” Elektra did her best to pretend they weren’t talking about sending her own head to her mother in a bag. “Trust me, she wouldn’t care. She might even put it on a spike alongside the Moraltan rebels to show how much she doesn’t care. You have no idea what she’s like.”

  “I know what she’s like,” Braeden said. “I’ve spent far too much time with that witch. But you might be right. In all the time I’d been with her, she never once mentioned her children. I didn’t even realize she had ‘em until someone else told me.”

  Elektra winced. For as long as she could remember, she knew her mother didn’t love her, but it still hurt a little to hear it put like that. She schooled her face into impassivity. For this to work, she had to appear hard. “I’m not surprised in the least. So are we in agreement that sending her my head will accomplish nothing?”