Amalia huffed angrily. “They will perceive this as a surrender. Anyone with a desire to change reality will merely produce some long-lost heir, and I will have to negotiate favorable deals. Eracia may suddenly decide they want special treatment, too. What happens when they close the border or stage some incident?”
Theodore scratched his balding head. What did she think? That having abducted half the world’s hobnobbers would have made Eracians and Caytoreans shit their pants? But this girl was Adam’s child, so he had to tread carefully.
“Amalia, dear, it’s not so simple. You should forget the past insults and jibes, even the murder attempts. They are irrelevant now. Your reign has just begun. You have proven your point. It’s time to move on to the next step.”
Forget? she thought sourly. She would never forget. Amalia clearly remembered the summer, not three years ago. Testing her father’s resolve, the mostly Eracian population had staged a small revolt in the rural areas of Pain Mave in the north, with peasants rising in rebellion against the emperor, demanding food and justice and no taxes. The winter had been harsh, the crop meager, a perfect opportunity for trouble. They called it the Ha’ Potato Revolt.
When the Seventh Legion had ridden into the region, the prospect of a violent uprising against her father had withered and died quickly. Any lesser man would have rounded the gang leaders and had them hanged in village squares as a warning, maybe even torched a place for good measure. But not her dad.
He had done just the opposite; he had invited the village elders and mayors to Roalas with a promise not to hurt them. And then, he held a long, tiring session in the capital, where he listened to their pleas and doubts and complaints. When they were done, he told them he would look into their problems, and if found them just and true, he would compensate them. But then, he also warned them that if they ever again rose against him, he would massacre their entire villages, to the last soul.
Amalia had stood by her father as he dealt justice. He had not singled out the Eracians. But he made sure that trade agreements and road taxes were adjusted when needed. Fair, stern, and always one step ahead of his foes.
She had no next step. She had to think.
The Caytoreans were playing a tricky game. She was not really sure what they wanted. They were trying to save face. They were trying to make her soften her demands, negotiate more favorable deals. The impostors were probably a bargaining chip against her abductions. But she could not yield. She would be dictating the rules of the game, not they.
Amalia looked at the bloodstaff when Theo interrupted her line of thought. “You’re not making any friends, Amalia,” the old man chided, unafraid. “You can still release the hostages. It’s not too late.”
She could still undo some of the damage…But Amalia ignored the old man. The Eracians had not responded to threats well, either. The monarch was furious. He felt personally insulted. His mistrust over the funeral ceremony seemed to have been justified. Amalia had never quite thought how things would have played out if Leopold had come. Then again, if he had, his symbolic gesture would have been a formal recognition of her birthright, and they could have negotiated a future peace, and then, she would not have taken any hostages in the first place.
There were rumors of Eracians mobilizing for war. Even though their army was weak, their pride was strong. It did not bode well for the future of their two realms. Birds flew, riders came with news and gossip, and bards sangs of Leopold’s wrath in Somar.
Amalia stared at her advisers. What did they think of her? How did they perceive her actions? Did they think she was a fool, an irrational child? She wondered what her father would have done. He had always seemed so wise and calm. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if her decision may not have been rash. After all, for almost twenty years, her father had done nothing to change the reality of the realms. And it seemed to have worked. Perhaps that was the key to the success of his reign.
Captain Gerald was looking at her intently. When she met his eyes, he averted them quickly.
Theodore persisted, like an aching tooth. “You should heed Councillor Stephan and turn his generous offer in your favor. The High Council of Trade may have countered with that pretender, but you still have the strategic advantage. Both our realms will profit. It does not matter that the Caytoreans get a fat slice if we can assure their support for your reign. Your father has forged Athesia in blood. You need not do that again.”
“I know what my father did,” she snapped.
“Then do the wise thing. Mend the wounds with Caytor. It’s the simplest thing. With Caytor at your side, Eracia will follow suit. Caytor has both a much stronger army and more powerful trade.”
Amalia did not answer. She turned toward Commander Nicholas, abruptly changing the subject. “Commander, are your forces ready?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” An entire legion had been detached from the city defenses and marched under the veil of night toward the Caytorean border. If negotiations crumbled and the Caytoreans persisted in their power games, she was going to invade. Her force was going to drive deep into enemy territory and hunt down the impostors. The Fourth was one of the more experienced units in the Athesian force, with almost a quarter of its men veterans from old times. They knew about bloodshed and wartime tactics better than any other regiment in Athesia. Commander Nicholas would ride out tomorrow and join them.
On his side of the small office, Gerald was listening and thinking, trying to come to terms with the young lady whom he had sworn to protect to his grave. In the past few days, he had been privy to numerous private meetings where matters of war, trade, and pride were discussed. As the man in charge of Roalas’s well-being, Amalia felt it necessary that he knew about every little detail. The long hours of arguing had given him a good opportunity to assess the situation.
He was worried.
Caytor and Eracia had never really acknowledged Athesia, that was true. They had acknowledged its power, its menacing, undeniable presence, the deep hurt of pride it had been in the last eighteen years, the coincidental but unmistakable prosperity that had been born from the uneasy new reality. But they had never really accepted Athesia as an equal. Perhaps eighteen years were not enough.
Amalia did not want to waste time insinuating her power into the court of Eracia and the Caytorean guild houses and banks. She wanted to cram it down their throats. He respected her desire, but he feared for Athesia. Late Emperor Adam would not have liked his daughter’s impetuous decisions. Amalia was Adam’s child. She shared his passion and maybe even his vision, but the man had risen from the gutters and fought for survival. He had know the hard, bitter price of success. She had been born to a life in court, swaddled in silk and opulence and protection.
Gerald felt like siding with the empress’s adviser. Theodore was more pragmatic. The old man had seen his share of wars and suffering. He knew all about the grim cycle of power, the change of rulers that was like the change of seasons. He had lived to enjoy the legacy of Emperor Adam’s hard work and did not wish to see it undone through folly. Before that, the man had labored under the yoke of the Feorans, and before them, the councillors, always on the cusp of danger and uncertainty, giving counsel to fickle lords. Rulers came and went, and he did his best to advise them. That was what he’d always done. His experience was vast and should not be easily disregarded, Gerald thought.
The captain of Roalas had no idea who had it right. He knew he would serve the empress to the death, if need be, even if he felt awkward about serving a girl many years his junior, a girl he had watched play and ride and sing as a child.
Perhaps Caytor needed a new lesson in humility. Perhaps Eracia had to be shown that Athesia was the new champion of the realms. Maybe it was necessary. For countless generations, there had been a stalemate of power between the two old realms, neither quite the winner nor the loser. Maybe Athesia was the answer to the endless years of wars between Eracia and Caytor, the culmination of that sorry wedlock.
Sadly, he
also realized that Eracia and Caytor could not quite let this happen. After all, the known history had no records of Athesia. But it was there, a reality, a sore sight for their eyes. While they could not make it vanish, they sure could improve the sight as much as possible for themselves. Emperor Adam had ignored them, but apparently Amalia was not going to.
Sunk in her own thoughts, fleeting between the knowledge she had kin out there, the hostages, and the terrible heirloom of responsibility embedded in the bloodstaff, Amalia was far less certain what she was trying to achieve. She wanted Eracia and Caytor to bow knee and accept her rule. But things were not going quite as she had expected. Her father’s methods had not made them love him or respect him. They had feared him, knowing all too well what he could do, but they had never seen him as one of their own.
It was so easy, and then, so difficult.
She glanced at the big old plain book on the desk before her. Father had taken its secrets to the grave with him. He had told her about the bloodstaff last year, shared the truth of its dreadful power as well as the stern responsibility that came with it. “Anyone can murder masses,” Adam would tell her. “But ruling is about forcing people do what you want of their free will.” He had never used the bloodstaff since the Great Victory, except against those dwarf assassins. “The moment you use your best weapon for any old squabble, you have nothing left for the next fight. Fear is the ultimate deterrent. Let legends feed your strength. Let wild rumors fly. Never deny them; never acknowledge them. People’s mind will breed horrors better than any battle plan you have.”
But he would not tell her about the book.
She had often seen him reading it, frowning, grunting, shaking his head, sometimes taking as long as one whole day to master a page. When she had asked him what that book was, he would only say: “No, you’re too young.”
Adam had warned her never to try to read the book without his permission or try to copy it; he had promised to give it to her on her twentieth birthday. And she had never disobeyed her father, no matter how much her curiosity burned and her fingers itched. She still clearly remembered his calm voice, fatherly love mixed with something dark and sinister. She had heeded the warning.
“One day, you will read this book. Everything that’s inside. It is very important that you read and pay attention to what the book says, no matter how simple or incredible the words may sound. But you must never copy even one word from it, you hear? Remember! And if an old Caytorean noble named Lord Erik comes asking for the book, you give it back to him, no questions asked. Now, on your twentieth birthday, we will read the book together.”
But then, he had died. She missed him so much.
Should she read the book now that her father was gone, she wondered. Her twentieth birthday was still several years away, but Adam was gone, and she was the empress now.
Should she use the bloodstaff?
“What about the impostors?” Lord Benedict asked suddenly.
Amalia floated down into reality. She sobered. “I want Pum’be assassins sent to deal with them all,” she said. Her eyes strayed toward the book. She shook her head and looked up. “Luke, see that they are hired.”
Theodore moved forward. “Amalia, I would advise against it. We need money for more pressing matters.”
“Theo, I want the impostors gone!” she flashed, angered.
The head of the Secret Guard nodded. He would make his inquiries. Luke never asked too many questions. It was not his job. Old and somber, Luke was a Caytorean by birth. Adam had seen it prudent to appoint locals in civil positions and covert roles, as they knew best the customs and laws and delicate social undercurrents, balancing the bulk of the Eracians in the military. Her father had wisely spread out the power of his dual-nation rule, encouraging cooperation and trust and mixed marriages.
Theodore shook his head. “It’s too early. You’re rushing into war. There will always be time for bloodshed if peaceful talks fail. But you must give negotiations a chance.”
Lord Benedict coughed. “We…I need some kind of a plan. While trade does continue unabated, things are not quite as they ought to be. We’ve received eight hundred wagonloads of grain less this week than normal. If the trade dwindles even as little as fifteen percent over the coming three months, we will face a dire shortage in the winter. The city only has supplies for a few short weeks of siege.”
Gerald nodded. A prolonged siege was a faraway nightmare, for now. But Roalas was not ready to face complete isolation. One solution was to evacuate half the civilian populace north, but it would reduce the available workforce and clog the roads. His soldiers would be busy fighting crime and brigands instead of focusing on training for war. But it seemed inevitable. Worse yet, rumors of a war brought frightened people and chance travelers closer to the safety of big cities. Villagers brought in their goods, but they hesitated leaving. Convoys lingered longer than necessary. There already was a new ring of shacks and tents growing in the fields around Roalas, hosting all kinds of peddlers and mercenaries and terrified country folk.
Amalia looked at the mayor. “Please prepare a plan that allows Roalas to withstand a year-long siege. If need be, we will evacuate all of the civilians from the city, leave only the soldiers and fighting volunteers. I want your recommendation ready the day after tomorrow.” She would have to read the book, she decided.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Lord Benedict looked skeptical. He had seen Roalas undergo one dreadful siege two decades earlier. It had been her father who had hurled the chopped limbs of captured Feorans into the city. Mercifully, Roalas had surrendered quickly and without bloodshed. The siege had been short, and no real crisis happened. This time, no one felt so lucky. If the Caytoreans and Eracians chose attrition, it could be many months, maybe even years, before peace and bounty came back to the empire.
Amalia nodded stubbornly. She wanted the plan to be in place. Her father had always been one step ahead of his foes, and she intended to follow suit. She would defend her country at all costs.
Empire, such a weird word for a small realm, she thought bitterly, feeling tired and dejected. She had often wondered why her father had never continued his conquest against all of the realms. He could have seized Parus after his victory. He could have marched into Eybalen and taken over Caytor. But no, he had settled back and wrought peace.
“Better that I drink from a cup of bile than drown in a sea of wine,” he told her.
“Who taught you that, Dad?” she asked.
“The book,” he said. She often wondered about his choice.
“Any news, Luke?” she asked the head of the Secret Guard.
“We’ve caught a number of spies this week, but we believe some have been sent to be detected and captured deliberately, to distract us from hunting down the real ones.”
The empress snorted.
“We have isolated another half a dozen suspects. My men have them under surveillance. For now, they are being watched and fed false information. I think it’s more productive than bringing them in.”
“Let me know once you hire the Pum’be.” It was time to end the meeting. She was too tired.
Amalia sat by the window, staring at the night sky. A veil of purple clouds obscured the stars. She was thinking, her mind racing, hobbled by self-doubt and fear. She wanted to be her father’s daughter, but she was not really sure how to do that. She did everything he’d taught her, but then, things looked so much different. He seemed to have done his ruling with such ease, such nonchalance. She could not imagine how much self-control it required. Her father must have had a heart of steel.
There was a soft knock at the door. Amalia turned. Agatha rushed to open it, her slippered feet silent on the thick carpets.
Amalia’s mother came in.
“Dear, you don’t look well,” Empress-Mother Lisa said.
Amalia smiled weakly. “Does it show?”
Lisa shrugged. “Most people won’t notice, but I’m your mother. What is it, dear?” The widow’s l
ines were creased, part with age, part with sorrow, the sort of extinguished energy that left someone when they lost a loved one, but her eyes were sharp.
The girl sighed. “Being an empress is harder than I thought. Not the actual work. It’s the responsibility. I have to live with my own choices, and sometimes I feel like I have no choice. And I know that my decisions will affect the fates of so many people.”
Her mother stroked her hair. Amalia squirmed. “Responsibility is hard.”
“I want to be like Father.”
Lisa said nothing. She knew her daughter could not be like Adam. Amalia had lived her life in sweet, careless joy, loved and pampered. Her life was pure, simple bliss.
It had taken Adam nine years before he told her the cruel, heartbreaking story of his life. He had confessed to Lisa one day, told her of his grim, dark past, the years of neglect and abuse as a child, the life as a prostitute on the streets of Paroth. You either toughened up and survived or you perished. You may have lived, but you became a husk, an empty emotionless shell.
She wondered if he took her as a wife because of their common fate. Had it been easier for him to live with someone who would not hate him for having sold his body for coin, who would not think of him any less because of the shameful things he had done? Perhaps it was the silent bond of suffering that had brought them together, the fact they shared life on a completely different level of intimacy, beyond the understanding of normal people.
Lisa knew perfectly well why Adam had been such a dreaded ruler. He had seen the world as one huge dark alley. It was kill or be killed. There was no middle ground. He had fought tooth and nail, the only way he had ever known.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 11