The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  Solteszy raised his eyebrows. “You’ll kill Prince Aksel if Arryk doesn’t send the money?”

  “Why not? Isn’t that part of the agreement?”

  “Not quite. Prince Aksel is being held to ensure Arryk no longer interferes in imperial affairs. The money is a separate matter.”

  “I disagree.” Teodora didn’t care about technicalities in treaties. “Arryk owes me money, and I want it sooner rather than later. If he refuses, I’ll kill his little brother.” She settled back into her chair and waved her hand. “Write the letter and send it by fast messenger. I’m sure you know how to be diplomatic but firm.” She stood. “I’ll deal with the little prince.”

  Braeden

  It was bad enough Braeden had to avoid soldiers from both sides, while covering hundreds of leagues back to Brandana. He was sure imperial troops were after him, but he also couldn’t risk running into Martinek or Faris on the other side, and have them capture the archduchess. Though it was true, he’d consider turning her over because she and Karil would not stop squabbling, and he was sick of them both. They argued about politics and religion without ceasing. Elektra had taken it into her head that Karil was both a heretic and Marjatyan rebel, and set out to make him change his mind. Being a stubborn sort, Karil was not about to have his mind changed, least of all by a hated Inferrara.

  “I don’t see why you can’t simply submit to your rightful rulers,” Elektra complained as they rode along a quiet forest path. “The gods have set them above you to impose order and protect you. Why don’t you let them do it?”

  “Because they’re wicked,” Karil said. “And everyone knows the Inferraras are mad. You’re the perfect example.”

  “Braeden, Karil is being dreadful again,” Elektra whined.

  “I don’t care, Your Grace.” Braeden longed for cotton to put in his ears. “Karil, don’t let her provoke you.”

  “I’m not provoking him. If we’re to negotiate when I’m empress, he must learn to behave properly.”

  Braeden sighed heavily. “I’m sure everything will come right once you’re empress.” He was having his doubts on that score, but kept them to himself. “No need to discuss it now. Please do shut up, Your Grace.”

  They were all miserable at this point. They had run out of food, and though they still had coin, Braeden was wary of buying any at town markets. Fortunately, it was harvest time, and they managed to live off what they stole out of the fields they passed, but what they found was often neither filling nor appealing. Less than half the fields in this area were under cultivation, since so many farmers had been run off by armies marching back and forth.

  Elektra’s fancy riding clothes had fallen apart, and now she wore Karil’s spare shirt and breeches, which were too big, and not at all pretty, as she complained. Braeden sometimes wished he’d killed her that first day. He would have carried on to Marjatya with Karil, and by now the two of them might well be relaxing in the Andarosz castle.

  He looked at her sideways, and she scowled, spurring her horse forward. Maybe he should just get rid of her anyway. At this point, Karil might not object either. He could do it while both of them slept; she’d never even notice until she woke up in the presence of her goddess, or whatever it was she hoped for. Besides, would she be able to convince Mattila of anything? How did he know she wouldn’t betray him?

  He turned that risk over in his head, and decided it was worth taking. The young lady seemed to take her oaths seriously, so after they’d crossed into Brandana, he pulled her aside one evening while Karil slept. He didn’t need him adding any snide remarks.

  “Your Grace,” he said, trying to sound as deferential as possible. “I must ask something of you.”

  She inclined her head. Braeden recognized the gesture as one of Teodora’s.

  “I must ask you to formally swear upon your goddess that you won’t betray me to Mattila.”

  Elektra laughed. “Gracious, you are a suspicious sort. It never occurred to me to betray you.”

  The falseness of her laughter made it clear it had in fact occurred to her, and not just because he’d brought it up. “I know,” Braeden said. “And I’m sorry. But I must be sure before I let you go.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I suppose you are taking a big risk, sending me to Mattila by myself.”

  “I am. So here’s what we’ll do. You’ll take out your little icon of Vica and swear on it you’ll not betray me or Karil, and that you will hold to our agreement until the empress is dead.” He’d seen the tiny icon she carried, and noticed that she prayed over it.

  She frowned. “You aren’t devout and Karil is a heretic, so why would you trust in Vica to hold me to my word?”

  “I don’t,” Braeden said, thinking again that killing her would be so much easier. “But you do, and that’s all I need.”

  “Very well then.” She pulled the icon out of her pocket and placed it on her knee, putting one hand on top of it. “I swear by Holy Vica that I will not betray you, Karil, or our cause to Mattila. May the goddess strike me down if I break this vow.”

  “Good.” Braeden nodded his approval. He wished he had another way to be sure, but this would have to do.

  Anton

  The count led his force northeast, hoping to reach Helvundala before King Lennart invaded. “We must be careful,” he told his officers before crossing the border into Brandana. “We don’t know where Brynhild Mattila is. We’ve only heard that she’s left Norovaea and that she might be anywhere in Kronland. I’d rather not tangle with her until we’re part of a larger force.”

  All the officers agreed, and so did Anton. He’d had two experiences with the army of Brynhild Mattila and didn’t care to have another. He didn’t even want to see her again with all the armies of King Lennart behind him.

  Later when he was alone with the count, Anton asked, “Isn’t it late in the year for an invasion?” He remembered King Arryk’s landing several years before in the middle of a winter storm. The king himself had been shipwrecked and lost a big part of his army.

  “It might be late,” the count said. “But Lennart is used to fighting in the winter. He’s been at war with Sanova for years, and they never slowed down for anything, least of all bad weather.”

  “Why did they stop fighting now?” Anton wondered. He knew Lennart was coming to Kronland because Estenor was finally at peace with Sanova.

  “He got married. His new wife is the daughter of the Sanovan queen. Now they’re family, they won’t fight each other, at least not for a while.”

  “So he had to marry some princess he’d never met to get peace?” Anton didn’t like the sound of that. Most princesses weren’t as beautiful as the Princess Gwynneth or as nice as the Duchess Maryna, who would be a princess too, someday.

  The count shrugged. “Kings do it all the time. It’s a good way to make alliances, though it doesn’t always work. I suppose we’ll find out if the treaty holds. Hopefully it lasts long enough for Lennart to finish off Teodora.”

  “I really hope he can,” Anton said, though he still didn’t believe anyone could.

  Anton enjoyed being on the move again. The wine harvest was in full swing in eastern Galladium and western Brandana, and the count wanted to sample all the different varieties of the regions they crossed. Even though everyone in Allaux drank wine all the time, Anton never liked it very much. It was too sour. But he changed his mind after trying some of the Brandana wine; white instead of red, and rather sweet. It went down almost like water.

  The count laughed at Anton while he drank his fourth mug, sitting outside an inn during a merry village festival along the Lera river. “You’re going to regret drinking like that.”

  Anton scoffed. “I can hold my liquor as well as you can.”

  “Maybe, but I’m only on my second. Trust me, you should slow down.”

  Anton had never seen the count drink white wine before, so he doubted he knew what he was talking about. He let the pretty blond serving girl refill his mug a
few more times, but before he could finish the last one, his head swam and felt very heavy. He laid it on the table, the count’s laughter sounding far away.

  When he woke up much later, no one was around, and his head pounded. The village was dark and silent. Anton remembered where the count was staying, but his head hurt too badly to move. He looked around until he spotted a well and staggered over to it, relieved to find the bucket mostly full. After dunking his head into it, the shock of the cold water made him forget about the ache.

  Anton stumbled down the dark, quiet street and found the inn they were staying at, but it was too much work to go upstairs and find the count’s room. So he laid down on the floor in the dining room, and slept soundly until the kitchen maid kicked him, shrieked, then fell right on top of him. There was a commotion until Anton woke up enough to reassure her he was a guest and not some kind of bandit. That didn’t help his head, and the count laughed for a long time when someone told him what happened with the kitchen maid.

  “I’ll get a barrel of the sweetest stuff just for you. There’s room in my wagons.” The count thought it was the funniest thing, though Anton didn’t agree.

  His head didn’t clear up until much later in the day, by which time he’d had to ride fifteen leagues. Every step Skandar took felt like a hammer to his head. “I’ll never drink wine again,” he muttered.

  “Don’t be silly,” the count said. “Just don’t drink so much at once. I tried to warn you.”

  “Hmph,” Anton said, and resolved to stick to ale from now on.

  Crossing the Lera River reminded Anton of the battle at Lerania. If he closed his eyes, he still saw people, horses and wagons falling into the water as the bridge collapsed, so he kept them open. They were farther north, and crossing a much sturdier bridge, but Anton felt nervous all the same. If Mattila had appeared right then, their position would have been just as bad as before. But they crossed with no incident and continued on into eastern Brandana. Anton relaxed a little. With any luck, they would find King Lennart with no problems after all.

  Lennart

  Lennart was pleased that he and Raysa had eased into affectionate companionship. He’d even made her laugh a time or two. But there was still no sign of a pregnancy even though they spent nearly every night together. He hoped there was nothing wrong with her, and resolved to ask the doctor to check carefully at her next visit. He knew it wasn’t his fault, because he had two youngsters running around Tharvik already, products of a few youthful indiscretions.

  And there was one more thing. He came to bed a little early one evening so they could talk. Raysa was still in her dressing room, running a brush through her heavy blond hair. Lennart paused in the doorway, enjoying the way it rippled to her waist. He wished she’d wear it long, but ever since their marriage she kept it up in elaborate, severe braids.

  She smiled up at him. “You’re early.”

  He came in, shutting the door behind him, then pulled up a chair so he sat across from her. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Have I done something wrong?” She put her brush down and placed her hands on her cheeks, where a slight flush was growing. “I realize I’m still not familiar with all of your customs.”

  Lennart leaned forward and took both her hands in his. “You’ve done nothing wrong, nothing at all. We get so little time to talk alone, and I wanted to discuss something that’s important to me.”

  “Certainly.” Her flush faded, but she left her hands in his, more relaxed now.

  “We haven’t talked about religion at all,” he said, “but it’s a big part of why I’m going to Kronland and I wanted you to understand.”

  “I see.” She cast a glance at the little icon of Vica, sitting in front of a candle on a small altar next to her dressing table. “I’d heard rumors in Sanova that you were a heretic, but I refused to believe it.”

  Since their marriage, which had been conducted according to the Sanovan rites, they’d never attended temple services together. Raysa visited the palace chapel every day with her own priestess in tow, while Lennart went to the main temple in Tharvik.

  He took a deep breath. “I might be a heretic in your eyes. It’s true I follow the Quadrene creed.”

  She made a small noise of dismay.

  He squeezed her hands a little more tightly, and looked into her eyes, even though he saw the hurt and confusion there. They had to get through this if things were to go forward. “The teachings of Edric Maximus and the words of the Holy Scrolls are very important to me, and I do my best to live by them. But I would never force you to give up your own faith.”

  He spotted the relief in her eyes and felt a pang. Maybe she still worried he was some kind of monster. He went on. “I don’t expect you to understand, but please at least try. Not to the point of converting yourself, though I’d be thrilled if you did. But just so you see why I believe what I do.”

  He looked straight at her, holding her gaze, as if by doing so he might make her agree. She looked back, though her dark blue eyes filled with tears. He steeled himself for them to spill over at any moment.

  Her lower lip trembled and then she spoke. “I’d like to understand, truly. But Mother Kassya says that the teachings of the heretic Landrus are poisonous and should be avoided by all true believers.”

  “I disagree, but I understand why she’d say that. And I won’t ask you to defy her in this. You needn’t read any of Edric’s sermons, though you’d probably like them. All I ask is that you read the Holy Scrolls yourself. Surely Mother Kassya won’t object to that?”

  “I hope not.” Raysa looked anxious. “But I’ll do it anyway if that’s what you want me to. I do wish to learn more.”

  Lennart smiled, trying to hide his relief, and pulled the little book out of his pocket. “You realize that the clerics of the empress’s own League of Aeternos read the Scrolls, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t know that.” She took the book and looked it over. “It seems so small, after all of the fuss.”

  “But the ideas inside are big. That’s the Olvisyan translation. We have one in Estenorian, but I find Edric’s language more compelling.”

  “What if I don’t understand?”

  “The language is simple, but if you come across unfamiliar words or concepts, just ask me. Or ask Mother Kassya. I’m sure she’ll have her own thoughts about it. Perhaps she’ll even enjoy reading them herself.”

  Lennart didn’t worry about the priestess too much. A kind, quiet older woman, she struck him as anything but fanatical. Any objections she might have would likely be voiced gently. Ottilya had tried sending along a harsh, unpleasant priest who reduced Raysa to tears constantly on the journey from Sanova, but Lennart sent him back as soon as they reached Estenor. Raysa had never asked about him once.

  “I’ll read them.” She placed the little book on a table beside her. “But I hope I don’t offend you if I keep praying to Vica that she might show you the true path.” She bit her lip and blushed, then looked down. When she spoke, it was so soft that Lennart barely heard her. “I’ve become quite fond of you.” She looked up at him, her gaze clear and earnest. “So I fear for your soul. I would be surprised if reading the Scrolls changes my mind about anything.”

  Lennart reckoned when she looked at him like that, she could worship fairies living in a teapot for all he cared. “Pray as much as you like,” he said. “And I’ll pray for you as well. I doubt we’ll go wrong with that.”

  Teodora

  Teodora was glad when the Norovaean ambassador finally saw reason and contented herself with firing angry letters off to Arryk, instead of haunting Teodora’s audience chamber daily. The woman was stubborn and tedious, but the time spent with her had paid off. Arryk might disregard Teodora’s messages, but he couldn’t ignore his own ambassador’s pleas. With those as proof of Aksel’s jeopardy, he would send Teodora her money, and do it quickly.

  Teodora returned to her chambers late one evening, annoyed to find her youngest daughter waiting f
or her.

  “Whatever do you want, Zofya?” she asked, sinking into a chair. She was too tired to be angry. She looked her daughter over. Zofya now wore the plain white dress of the temple acolyte, which suited her. She had even grown taller and prettier. Perhaps the move to the temple school had been good for her.

  Zofya fidgeted, a flush blooming on her cheeks. She took a deep breath, then said, “I want you to let Aksel Roussay out of the Arnfels right now.”

  Teodora shook her head, amazed the girl was even aware of the prince’s existence. “Why do you care?”

  Zofya swallowed hard, but looked Teodora straight in the eye. “I’m in love with him, and can’t bear the thought of him in that dungeon. In fact, I’d like to marry him someday.”

  “What? The last time we spoke you were in love with Gauvain Brevard and terribly upset at the prospect of breaking the engagement.”

  “Oh, that was ages ago,” Zofya said, with a wave of her hand. “I was so young and had no idea what I was doing. You were right; it’s impossible to fall in love with someone you’ve never met.”

  “When have you met Aksel Roussay? Have you ever so much as talked to him?” Teodora knew he had been staying in Livilla’s palace, but the temple school, though nearby, was an isolated world unto itself.

  “All the time,” Zofya said. “Mother Hela, my scientific instructor, says I’m particularly good at experimentation. And Aksel is of course a brilliant scientist. I’ve spent hours in the school laboratory with him. We’ve invented a—”

  “You’ve what?” Teodora nearly came out of her chair. “You’ve been spending time alone with Aksel Roussay?”

  Zofya had the good sense to look mildly alarmed. “Not completely alone. Mother Hela is always there, and so are the other students. But Aksel and I have become good friends; he says I’m nearly as clever as his sister, and everyone knows she’s—”