The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  “Only if things progress as expected.” Edric’s tone was chilly, though he didn’t seem angry. “But one thing I’ve learned in the past years, is that nothing ever goes as expected. We do not know who will survive, or who will be the one standing on that field at the final moment.”

  “True.” Lennart wondered if he could convince this man of anything. “I can’t predict the future; I can only make my plans based on what I can imagine. And focusing on the prophecy so far hasn’t done anyone much good. Just look at the mess it made for poor King Arryk.”

  “Arryk was never serious about his mission.” Edric gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m certain he never believed in any of it. I won’t lie; I had my moments of doubt after Kendryk was imprisoned, but I never thought Arryk was the one. You are an entirely different matter.”

  Lennart decided to take this as a compliment, though he wasn’t sure how much good it would do him. “You might not trust me yet, but I can assure you my primary mission here is to spread your teachings throughout the empire. My main goal is to overthrow Teodora and the old faith altogether, or at the least, severely weaken both. Kendryk regaining the throne of Terragand is just a first step in a long journey.”

  Edric’s eyes widened, and Lennart reckoned this was the strongest reaction he’d get from him, so he pressed on. “I don’t tell most people because I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Restoring the independence of Kronland seems manageable, and is an idea the rulers can get behind. I expect less enthusiasm when it comes time to take the fight to Olvisya, so I’d rather not mention it yet.”

  Edric shook his head, a smile touching his lips. “I must confess, you’ve surprised me. I too would love to see Teodora and her religion destroyed entirely. But like you, I realize most people don’t want to contemplate such an ambitious project, especially while our prospects remain uncertain. But that end is necessary if we are to prevail.” He looked at Lennart, far more friendly now. “I still don’t know what to think about the prophecy. But now I can’t dismiss you from consideration altogether. I will have to study some more, and pray about it, though this conversation might already be the answer to prayer. I had asked the gods for clarity about your purposes, and you delivered exactly that. I thank you.”

  “I thank you for understanding.” Lennart rose. “And I’m glad you approve of my goals. I’d have gone ahead without you, if I had to, but it’s better this way.”

  A broad smile covered Edric’s face, even reaching those chilly eyes. “Yes, it’s better this way.”

  Kendryk

  Once Kendryk neared Mattila’s seat in Brandana—Princess Floreta’s former castle—he stopped at an inn and cleaned up, taking care to put on his best clothes. The few things he’d brought were creased and worn from hard use in the past months, but they would have to do. He also ordered the troops who accompanied him to polish up, though from what he knew of Mattila, she’d appreciate the battle-worn look.

  By the time he approached the castle, it was clear he was expected. That he’d gotten this far without being challenged meant he wasn’t seen as a threat. Kendryk decided he’d see it as positive. Perhaps she’d be interested in negotiating with him.

  Mattila met him at the castle’s main entrance, and though her welcome was polite enough, Kendryk noticed she didn’t bow, nor did she address him as Your Grace. Count Faris stiffened up next to him indignantly, but Kendryk shot him a glance, hoping he’d understand not to say anything just yet. Mattila was still Teodora’s creature and might still consider Duke Evard the rightful ruler of Terragand.

  “We can talk now,” she said, “unless you’re just paying a social call, in which case we’ll catch up at dinner.”

  “Let’s talk now,” Kendryk said, amused at paying someone like Brynhild Mattila a friendly visit. He tried not to show how intimidating he found her. At least a half-head taller than Kendryk, she was every inch the grim, battle-hardened veteran. Next to her, even an old warrior like Count Faris looked soft. There was nothing of the courtier in her, which Kendryk wasn’t certain was a good thing either. He’d become accustomed to protocol while ruling Terragand, and found he worked best within its bounds. The formality of a court like Galladium’s was excessive, but he didn’t mind some friendly nonsense before getting to the meat of a conversation, giving him time to read the situation. But in Mattila’s case, there was no nonsense to be had.

  “Do we need him?” she asked, nodding in Faris’s direction as she led Kendryk into a cluttered library.

  “He’s called Count Faris and yes, Countess, we need him,” Kendryk said, his tone icy. It was one thing to offend Kendryk, but quite another to treat his loyal friend shabbily.

  “All right then.” Mattila’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “Have a seat.” She flung herself into a chair behind a desk piled high with ledgers.

  Kendryk took a pile of papers from another chair, and placed them on the desk before sitting down.

  “Ugh, I forgot about those,” Mattila said. “No one ever tells you how much paperwork is involved in running a kingdom. I’ll bet you don’t miss it.”

  “I never minded the paperwork,” Kendryk said, reminding himself that she was likely trying to goad him. But he was no Teodora, and wouldn’t lose his temper so easily.

  “I suppose not, considering all the trouble you’re going to, trying to get it back.”

  Kendryk swallowed and stayed silent.

  “Well? Isn’t that why you’re here?” Mattila leaned forward across the desk, fixing her cold eyes on Kendryk. “Lennart’s errand-boy, as it were.”

  Kendryk bit his lip and counted to ten, hoping Count Faris would hold his tongue. He heard a snort from his direction, but nothing further. When he was sure he could speak calmly, he said, “Not at all. I’m here on my own behalf, as ruler of Terragand. I hoped we might have a civil conversation.”

  “Calling yourself ruler is rich, though it’s true you’re a lot nicer than Teodora.”

  “Everyone’s nicer than Teodora,” Kendryk said before he could stop himself.

  That brought a dry chuckle. “True. I’ve never met a more disagreeable person, and I’m relieved to be rid of her, at least for the time being.”

  “Why not be rid of her for good?” Kendryk thought he should take the opening, when offered.

  “I’d love that, but how do you propose to do it?”

  “Remove all of her options. Ensden’s days are numbered, and once he’s gone, no one stands between my armies and Teodora.”

  “So that’s the plan then? Lennart will defeat her, and make himself emperor.”

  “That’s not the plan,” Kendryk said, though he wondered if he ought to discuss that honestly with Lennart when he saw him again. “Once Teodora is defeated, and Kronland has received guarantees of political independence and religious freedom, Lennart will return to Estenor. Olvisya can choose a ruler who is not an Inferrara.”

  “And you believe Lennart will leave when all of this is done? I don’t.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Kendryk said, “but surely you don’t mind if Teodora is defeated and deposed. What happens after that can be negotiated when the time comes.”

  “Perhaps.” Mattila looked at him shrewdly. “So what do you want? Me to enter the fight on Lennart’s—oh, excuse me, your side—or my promise of neutrality?”

  “We’d prefer you to fight on our side,” Kendryk said, looking directly at her, “but failing that, a guarantee of neutrality would be acceptable.”

  “Oh it would, would it? For a fellow with no kingdom and no army, you’re much too demanding. And if you’re only speaking for Lennart, you’re still high and mighty for my taste.”

  “I’m sorry if my manner offends you,” Kendryk said, his tone making it clear he felt no such thing. “I am not making any demands; I’m merely here to negotiate.”

  “Just one Kronland ruler to another then?”

  Kendryk flushed, annoyed. This woman had no right to complain of anyone else’s m
anner, considering how unpleasant hers was. “I’m sure you realize I cannot acknowledge you as a Kronland ruler, at least not while Princess Floreta and any of her heirs still live.”

  Mattila pulled a face. “Gods, you lot are so stuffy. But that will change soon, mark my words.”

  Count Faris finally spoke up. “Is that a threat?”

  “Not really.” Mattila shrugged. “But before we negotiate, perhaps we need to make a few things clear.”

  Teodora

  Teodora lay awake, listening to the temple bell toll midnight. She had to decide tonight. She couldn’t bear to see Daciana in this state any longer, and she needed to return to Atlona. It had been weeks now, and while no new emergencies had arisen, she knew it was only a matter of time before the next crisis.

  Deciding meant calling forth memories she’d tried to bury long ago, but she forced herself to do it now. Tears leaked from her eyes, so she screwed them shut all the tighter. It had been nearly thirty years, but the terror of that moment returned quickly, if she let it.

  She, Teodora Inferrara, Archduchess of Olvisya, Duchess of Trest and Marova, third in line to the imperial crown, was being stripped and bound to a post, like a common criminal. Teodora had stood there, frozen and terrified, unable to believe this was happening to her. She didn’t dare look up, because she would meet the cold eyes of Brynhild Mattila.

  Mattila’s jailer pushed her to her knees and Teodora fell, scraping her cheek against the rough wood of the post. The muscles of her shoulders screamed as all her weight sagged from her wrists, tied to a beam over her head. Teodora struggled to her feet to take the pressure off, but a knee pressed into her back, pushing her down again. She pressed her lips together. No matter what happened, she wouldn’t make a sound, wouldn’t shed a tear. She’d never give Mattila the satisfaction.

  Teodora realized she was responsible for walking into an ambush near the Zastwar border, but losing most of her company seemed punishment enough. And besides, it was her first real engagement. She was only eighteen, and not even the senior officer. She hadn’t made the decision to take the fatal route, but the captain who had was dead. Still, it wasn’t fitting punishment for the crime; Teodora was certain of that. She’d heard of similar things happening to other officers, and their punishments—if they happened at all—were fines or temporary demotions. This was so far out of bounds, so unjust, Teodora knew it was only because Brynhild Mattila hated her.

  She didn’t understand the hatred. Teodora had tried to be friendly, listened to all advice, and followed orders scrupulously. But none of that made any difference, and in later years, Teodora wondered if she’d been sent into that ambush deliberately, not expected to survive.

  The lash fell for the first time, and Teodora bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Blood filled her mouth and she spat it out, then looked up. Mattila’s gaze bored into her, and Teodora looked straight back, hoping she showed no fear, even though terror nearly overwhelmed her. The lash fell again and again, and Teodora willed herself not to scream or faint. She would not appear weak. She felt ill after the fifth stroke, but then there was a pause and a collective gasp from the assembled troops.

  Teodora heard the crack of the whip, and a shriek behind her. She turned her head as far as she could, and saw a skinny little girl, wearing what looked like a ragged sack, wrapping the whip around the jailer’s fat neck. The jailer’s eyes bulged, his face turned purple, and a horrid gurgling sound came from deep within his throat.

  The girl pulled tighter and said, “Cut the young lady down or I kill him.” She spoke heavily accented Olvisyan, and her eyes flashed yellow, like a cat’s.

  “You can’t be serious,” Mattila said, her voice flat, though two red spots burned on her cheeks. “Let him go right now and I might spare your life, slave.”

  “Please, let him go,” Teodora whispered, trying to catch the girl’s eye. She couldn’t bear someone dying while trying to defend her, for whatever reason.

  The girl shook her head. “No. This is wrong and I refuse to allow it.” This coming from a tiny, skeletal ragamuffin who was also apparently a slave would have been amusing, but for those frightening eyes. She yanked harder on the whip, and the jailer passed out. He had turned some awful color, and Teodora hoped he was still alive, not for his sake, but for the girl’s.

  Mattila moved so quickly Teodora almost missed it, but an instant later, the girl lay on the ground while Mattila pushed the jailer away with her foot. He flopped over, unconscious or dead. Now Mattila held the whip, but when it came down, the girl was gone. Teodora strained her neck, trying to see what was happening behind her. There were sounds of a scuffle, and a shout from Mattila. The girl danced around in front of Teodora, who fell to the ground as the rope holding her wrists was cut. Where had she gotten a knife?

  Teodora rolled over, slipping in her own blood, the pain forgotten, trying to scramble to her feet. Mattila loomed over her, blood dripping from her arm. Before Teodora could get away, Mattila grabbed her by the hair with the other hand, and yanked her to her feet. Then she felt cold metal at her throat.

  “Put the knife down and surrender,” Mattila said to the girl, her teeth gritted. “Or I’ll cut the young lady’s throat.”

  Teodora tried desperately to catch the girl’s eye. She stood near, but not close enough to get to Mattila before she killed Teodora. And Teodora knew Mattila would welcome the excuse.

  While the girl hesitated, two of Mattila’s guards jumped on her, throwing her to the ground.

  Mattila dropped the knife, and pushed Teodora away. Then she spoke to the guards. “Take that thing to the woods and kill it.”

  “No,” Teodora’s throat was so raw, almost no sound came out. “No!” she finally shouted. “I order you to let this girl go.”

  Mattila scoffed. “You order me. You have no authority over me.”

  Teodora looked at the girl, her head still up, her eyes blazing in spite of the boots on her back. “Not militarily,” she said. “But I’m the Duchess of Marova, and you Countess Mattila, are my subject. I order you to let—what is your name?” she asked the girl.

  “Daciana Tomescu,” the girl said, her voice firm.

  Teodora turned to Mattila and caught her eye. “I order you to let Daciana Tomescu go. She was merely defending me.” Teodora had never wanted to take advantage of her position, and even in her worst moments, refused using it to save herself. But she would happily do it now, and would insist on the emperor backing her, if necessary.

  “She doesn’t belong to you,” Mattila said, though she no longer sounded as certain.

  Teodora looked down at Daciana. “Who do you belong to? You’re a slave, aren’t you?”

  “An escaped slave,” the girl said with a smirk. “I belonged to no one. But now I belong to you.”

  Anton

  “I worry about you,” Susanna murmured, one night as Anton drifted off to sleep after polishing off the better part of a bottle. For a while after the battle, he’d cut back on drinking so much, mostly because he wanted to make Susanna happy. But once the horror of the battle receded, the bad dreams came back, and Anton needed a fair amount of brandy to get any sleep at all.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said, trying to move his lips as little as possible.

  “You’re not happy,” she said. “I can tell. You were better before the battle. Does your face still hurt very much?”

  “Not really,” Anton said. In truth, he hardly noticed it at all.

  Susanna propped herself up on her elbows so she could look down at him. “Something is bothering you and you won’t tell me.”

  “It’s embarrassing,” Anton said, feeling drunk and a little reckless.

  “You can tell me anyway.” She ran a finger down his cheek; the good one, as he now called it.

  “I don’t like fighting as much as I used to. It used to be the best thing in the world. Now I hate the idea and don’t want to do it anymore.”

  “Don’t then,” Susanna said.
“Between us, we have enough to buy out your contract.”

  “And then what?”

  “Keep working with me. You make a lot more money from that than you ever have from soldier’s pay. We’ll get serious about it; start a real business. Perhaps even set up a shop somewhere when the war is over.”

  Anton remembered his grandfather’s shop in Kaleva and smiled.

  “You like the idea?” Susanna looked a bit anxious.

  “I do. I can’t picture how it might happen, but I do like it. My mother’s family had a shop—they probably still do. I always liked going in, looking at all of the goods, hearing the customers chat with my aunts and my grandparents.”

  “You could go back to them.”

  That hit Anton like a shock. “I’d never thought of it, but you’re right. Maybe I could, someday. They’re all the way in Kaleva, though.”

  “I don’t speak Moraltan.”

  “I’ll teach you.” Anton grabbed Susanna’s hand and kissed it, suddenly much happier. If he wasn’t cut out to be a soldier after all, it was nice to know he had another choice.

  Susanna kept looking at him, breathed in, then frowned a little as she exhaled. “I have to tell you something.”

  “You’re full of ideas tonight.” Anton smiled at her sleepily.

  “I’m pregnant.” She said it quickly, then gasped and held her breath.

  “What?” Anton was wide-awake in an instant. He sat up and pulled her up next to him. “Are you sure? Don’t you drink that awful-tasting tea every day; the one you got from that strange-looking doctor?” Anton was pretty sure the man was no real doctor, but that’s what everyone called him.

  “I was.” Susanna licked her lips. “It doesn’t always work. You’re not angry, are you?”

  “Why would I be angry? I’m surprised yes, and a little worried. It’s such a bad time to have a baby, right in the middle of the war.”

  Susanna drew her eyebrows together. “I realize it’s a terrible time. If you want, I can go back to that doctor. He knows what to do if the tea doesn’t work.”