“I don’t need extra security,” the empress decided. “My father managed just fine.”
Gerald took a deep breath. Your father was a ruthless bastard. You’re just a sweet girl. He never liked arguing with the empress, for all his short tenure as her captain. Well, technically, he was the city’s champion, but he also felt personally responsible for her safety.
He felt ridiculous. Her security detail had already been tripled, without her knowledge, but it was hard, grueling work for her guards. They had to move out of her sight. If she let him increase the security officially, his work and that of his special troops would be so much easier. But she was every bit as stubborn as the late emperor.
“Please, Amalia. Please reconsider it,” he pleaded.
He was not really sure what to think about her daring international scandal. It was something her father would have done, and he could not help but wonder if she may have done it out of childish spite, just to prove she had the same nerve and acumen.
For him and the thousands of troops stationed around Roalas, it was a nightmare. The city roads were clogged with checkpoints. The roads were crammed with slow-moving caravans, each undergoing thorough checks. There was nothing left to chance. Gerald could not afford it. They had already unearthed half a dozen minor Eracian spies and possibly one assassin. He could only wonder how many others remained at large, roaming the streets of the capital, laying out the details of the upcoming war.
It would be his first, Gerald thought. His first real war. He had tasted blood and killed men in minor skirmishes with bandits and rebels and pockets of religious fanatics that still could be found in secluded villages now and then.
But he had never seen a press of ten thousand soldiers hurtling into a cauldron of death. There were only the stories, his father’s, one of Adam’s men. His father had been wounded in the Second Battle of Bakler Hills. After the war, he’d gone back to Eracia and smuggled his wife and baby son to Roalas. Gerald had never seen the country of his birth. But in his heart, he was an Athesian. Eracia was just a foreign place, far away.
Forever maimed by the arrow wound to his leg, Adam had appointed his trusted officer Beno as the commander of the City Guard. And like father, like son, Gerald had taken his place after the old man had retired. But he could not shrug the uneasy feeling of not really being worth his father’s legacy. He could not dismiss the same notion he felt for Amalia. They were children, playing on the shoulders of giants.
She was talking to him. He waited for her to repeat the question, too embarrassed to admit he had not listened to his empress.
“I said, how many men? For the security detail?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Three women at all times, Your Highness. I beg you.”
“I’ll think about it,” she ceded grudgingly. “Stay with me while I meet this Caytorean.”
They chose her private office for the meeting. It was a small study, small but useful. People focused on the business at hand rather than wallow in awe of great halls and ancient statues. Not that Roalas had any of those. The city had suffered a turbulent past in the last several decades. First, there were the old gods, for many generations. Then, the Feorans came and took their hammers to the temples and shrines, burning in the name of their one deity. Then, her father came and made the city a place without religion. Old tapestries were taken down, replaced with new motifs and new ideas. There was a whole cellar somewhere, crammed to bursting with dirt, bird droppings, and tons of rusted metal idols, icons, and books embodying the teachings of the false gods.
Gods or no, Roalas was first a trade city, then a war city, and least of all a seat of royalty. Its chambers were austere and functional. Its walls were barren and scarred. If you wanted your guests to listen, it was a perfect place, without distractions.
The only token of resplendence was a large oil painting dominating the wall behind Amalia. It was called The Second Battle of Bakler Hills, like a thousand other works that marked the birth of Athesia’s history. Adam had always complained the art piece was inaccurate. His men had worn Eracian uniforms back then. And they sure hadn’t looked so valiant, supposedly a bunch of fair noblemen with crossbows, surrounded by an angry horde of Caytoreans wielding lance and sword.
Theodore was already waiting patiently for her when she returned, standing rigidly in one corner, as severe as his imperial duty. A servant was laying down fruit and drinks. Agatha hovered nearby.
“Where’s my mother?” Amalia asked.
“Lady Lisa cannot attend. She has other private business,” the adviser said.
Amalia did not seem pleased with the answer, but she said nothing.
A few minutes later, Councillor Stephan was led in, escorted by two burly men. Gerald frowned when he saw them thump the guy into the office. This behavior felt more befitting a prisoner than a guest. He would have to talk to Edwin, his deputy, about this. The guards left. Gerald stayed, watching the man, ready to take action if need be.
The Caytorean seemed calm enough, innocent, nonchalant, good spirited, not really bothered by his ill treatment. The deliberate moment he took to adjust his crinkled suit told Gerald he felt the slight abuse was actually to his advantage.
“Your Majesty,” he said.
“Highness,” she corrected him.
He bowed. “I apologize. I was not sure about Athesian formalities.”
Amalia did not let him dawdle. “What is it you want?”
Councillor Stephan looked toward an empty chair, but they ignored his cue. He coughed. “I would like to appoint myself as an adviser on behalf of Caytor and the High Council of Trade in your service, Your Highness.”
She seemed confused, but made an effort not to let doubt touch her face. “What do you mean?”
“It is obvious that our nations have reached, well, sort of an impasse. We probably owe your father much in return for his benevolence when it comes to trade and peace. As a man of wealth and heavy investments in cargo traveling down your roads, I would hate to see perfectly good gold go to waste over petty bickering. Instead of letting this situation deteriorate into war, we could perhaps work some sort of an agreement that would assure both Caytor and Athesia that we need and want peace.”
Amalia let him fret a little while she took more than her share of time to consider his proposal. “That does sound reasonable.”
He nodded like the good merchant he was. “Indeed. Now, my colleagues in Eybalen must be a little worried about this affair, so I would need to ask you for a favor.”
She arched a brow. He took this for permission to press on with his demands.
“You may want to release your hostages and let them go home. I would remain and serve as the chair for any future negotiations. I am positive my colleagues will be pleased.”
“Do you have the authority to make any decisions, Councillor Stephan?” she asked.
He nodded. “I sure do. It is in my power to negotiate deals on behalf of the House.”
She smiled. “You sound as if this is an ordinary business meeting. You do realize the balance of power?”
Councillor Stephan genuflected lightly. “Definitely. At the moment, you have the initiative. Which is why you should not miss this opportunity to prove your benevolence. You would assure Caytor you seek peace. We would be more than happy to double our trade deals with Athesia. This could be a pretext for alliance, perhaps.”
“After you tried to assassinate my father,” she snapped.
Theodore tsked in a low, barely audible voice. Gerald knew what that sound meant; the adviser felt it was a bad, childish move.
Councillor Stephan frowned, clearly frustrated. “I am not sure…”
The old man tried to stop Amalia, but she was flying. “Without my father, Caytor would have been in ruins. He saved your realm, no less than he saved Eracia from a similar fate. And what have you given in return? Poisoned arrows.”
Stephan blinked. The meeting was not going the way he’d imagined, Gerald mused. “But now,
you are the empress of Athesia. It’s a great opportunity to put old ills behind us and focus on the future and prosperity of our nations.”
“Letting go a few Caytorean dignitaries might be a good concession,” Theodore whispered.
Empress Amalia rose from her chair, facing the merchant. “First thing, you should wipe that smug smirk off your face,” she barked. Councillor Stephan paled. His face turned sour. “Second, do not ever patronize me. The next time you do, I will have you beheaded.”
He lowered his head. “I apologize.”
Gerald swallowed. He felt uncomfortable. Why was Amalia being so stern?
Theodore looked equally embarrassed. He looked as if he wanted to berate the empress, but he kept his lips tightly pressed.
Amalia realized she may have gone too far. She deflated just a little. “That’s better. Now, let’s start over. Caytor wants peace? Well, they will have to make the first move.”
Stephan grimaced. “It will be very difficult for me to negotiate such a gesture, Your Highness.”
Her fervor came back. She snorted in an unladylike manner. “Why? Your caravans rumble across Athesia unharmed. If I wanted to starve you to death, I could have done that easily. No, I want peace. And I want a formal apology, for all the wrongs you’ve done my father.”
Stephan was smart enough not to argue. “I will see what I can do. You will, of course, permit me to write a letter and send it to Eybalen?”
“Yes, you may write a letter,” Amalia said.
Theodore rubbed his face. Gerald said nothing. But he knew how the old adviser must feel. The councillor had just offered the empress an easy way out of this mess. True, he did have a huge interest in making sure the peace lasted, but it did not matter. In return, Amalia had humiliated him. Gerald hoped the man liked gold more than he liked his pride.
He found the exchange somewhat alarming. Amalia was being dangerously bold. Her father had never bothered to voice his disagreement to his foes. He made sure they knew he disagreed.
A war was coming. That was for sure. The captain of Roalas could not say whether it would be Eracian spears or Caytor swords that fell upon his country, but they would, sooner or later. His empress was going to rewrite her legacy in battle. Just like her father had.
To what end, he wondered. Did she know something he didn’t? Was blood and fire the only way Athesia could survive and earn the grudging respect of its neighbors? Was intimidation and violence the only coin of trade? Eighteen years of peace had polished some of Adam’s work, but he had been the most brutal and atrocious ruler in the realms in many generations. Perhaps it was time for another grim showdown of resolve. Well, he just hoped Amalia knew what she was doing.
He turned his thoughts to his duty: making Roalas ready for a prolonged siege.
CHAPTER 7
The god Nannath lifted his head, squinted at the sun, and wiped sweat from his forehead. He stared at his ageless palm, unmarked by eons of hard work in the fields. Where humans would have blood and pus under a layer of yellowed boils, his skin was smooth and perfect.
He had not felt this alive in a long, long time. Ever since the Great Court, he had languished in a senseless stupor, hanging on the edge of boredom and apathy, more dead than alive. Time had lost importance. Importance had become just another word. But then, Damian’s spirit had broken free from its eternal prison, and with it, the bond that had kept Nannath lethargic and stupefied and so sick with the burden of living had shattered, too. It felt like being created again. It felt wonderful.
Nannath had felt his life force draining away as his followers were butchered, but many had survived. Farmers all over the world had never really abandoned him. Growing crops was magical, almost like human birth. You could plow the earth, sow seeds, and nourish them with water, but then crops might never grow. And then, one day, against all odds, after harsh winter frost or a terrible fire, a bud could shoot through the crust of mud and ice and ash and give life. It wasn’t science. Life was unpredictable. For farmers, chance separated life from death. This magic was part of the deep faith that had helped Nannath survive.
Fleeing the City of Gods had been an ordeal. He had seen so many of his kin perish. They would just stagger in midstep and fall down, never to rise again. They had withered, faded into oblivion. He had seen their bodies eaten by foxes and badgers. He had seen maggots feast on the bones of forgotten deities. Others had been killed by predators, animal and human alike. Many had starved, trying to survive the cold and hunger. Some had gotten lost in the forest, never to be seen again. But even in peril, even when faced with death and destruction, they had kept apart, lonesome, separated, confused, and weak.
Looking back, he realized that as gods, they had given up the last several thousand years to despair and apathy. They had abandoned the world. The timeless life in the city had lulled them, made them weak and stupid. It had been such a horrible mistake. They had won over Damian, and then let him win over them by giving up on humanity. No matter how twisted and perverted it was, it was still their creation. They had virtually made themselves extinct. It was the most pathetic and elaborate suicide ever staged. Worse, not one of them had really understood the severity of their situation until their protective cocoon had shattered. So many had died without Damian even lifting a finger. He could have just waited and let the city wither to death.
But now, Nannath was free. Free of illusions and broken dreams. Free of the slow, colorless nightmare that had keep him on the brink of the wrong side of sanity for so many eons, free of the dull pain of meaningless existence that only an immortal being could feel. He was alive.
He burned with exhaustion. He burned with determination. He was tilling the earth again, as he had done many forgotten centuries before, as he should have been doing ever since. He was nursing the land. He was being himself. It felt good. It felt empowering. This land belonged to his believers, and they deserved bounty.
The slaughter of many of his followers had hurt him badly, and he had gained only some followers in the last two human decades, but he was still stronger than he had been in the city. There was power in life itself, in the desire to live.
Humans were doing their best to restore faith. Only yesterday, he had seen a group of them, pulling on a cart of polished stone, taking it to a knoll nearby where they intended to raise a new shrine in his name. The token effort felt like a fresh breath of clean air. The little he could do was make sure to give them back what they needed, a harvest to last their families throughout the year.
The fields around were ripe. In most areas, it was still too early for crops. But few farmers had the love and skill he possessed. The land was rich and fertile. It was so simple, so beautiful. It was the essence of his existence.
Birds circled above, knowing that the immortal farmer would feed them. They made all kinds of noises, crying for attention, swooping low above him, flapping wings, teasing him. A fearless fawn was browsing the brush at the edge of the forest, its dark-brown liquid eyes watching him intently yet serenely. There was harmony to his land, a special kind of peace and love.
And then, at once, the birdsong died.
It was not a subtle change. It was an abrupt silence that jarred the ears. Nannath looked around him, feeling his divine senses sharpen, turning alert. His skin prickled. His instincts told him there was danger. The fawn was gone.
He put down the hoe in the tall grass. When he looked up again, a horsed stranger was watching him, two hundred paces away. A light breeze stirred the man’s dark cape. He was large and burly, wearing full chain mail that glittered in the afternoon sun. He was too far away to recognize, but Nannath needed no face to know the stranger was dangerous.
Another soldier sat on a horse a quarter of a circle to the left. Yet a third man emerged from the forest, armed and swathed in glittering mail and plate armor. There was no mistaking their intent.
Nannath considered his options. They did not move. They wanted to see what he would do. They were playing him, l
ike a predator might with a hapless victim. They let him fret and squirm. They would wait for him to start running to give chase. Otherwise, where was the fun in the whole thing?
The three men and their steeds were submerged in hip-tall grass, looking like some weird, legless ornaments, surreal and frightening. It was as if they floated on a leafy sea of green. Nannath felt a moment of despair. Then, a moment of determination. He had escaped the city and survived destruction. He could outwit a few humans, no matter how well skilled they might be.
Nannath considered talking to them, but then, he was not really sure how to do that. He had not spoken to a human in ages. He avoided humans. Perhaps, one day, he would muster the courage and try to blend into human society again, be one of them, be their respected and beloved god. But the gap was frighteningly huge. Everything had changed so much. What would it be like to negotiate with things that were thousands of years apart in mind-set?
The escaped god looked down at his trusted work tool. Maybe he could fight? He had never done that before. But he would not surrender. Life was too precious to give up so easily. He looked left and right. If he ran fast enough, he might reach the forest and then lose them in the dense woods and thorny undergrowth.
He started to sprint in long, powerful strides. On cue, the three men charged. They did not speak or yell. They merely urged their powerful beasts into a gallop, closing the distance with his running form. Nannath did not tire easily, but he could not maintain the quick pace forever. He veered across the rich fields, forcing his pursuers to slow. The shelter of the forest was a distant promise.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 7