The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  Otis smiled. “We will arrange everything. Don’t worry. We will organize social gatherings where you will meet young ladies and daughters of rich councillors. You will talk to them and be nice and polite and charming. And you will hint at a union, maybe, sometime in the future. Just remember to keep your hands to yourself. You will stay lucrative as long as they can’t have you.”

  They went up a long flight of stairs covered in red rugs. James noticed the fabric was paler and more worn in the center, where most people walked, with deep crimson holding to the edges. Unknown faces from wall paintings stared at him austerely, being dusted by a girl too short to reach the top of each frame, so she had to stand on her toes and stretch.

  James felt like that, someone reaching too high for his own good.

  The second floor of the center of the mansion was shaped like a star with eight arms, the cardinal points wider and longer. Below him, below a thick chunk of white stone, the huge reception hall stretched, above him, a flat ceiling painted with vine motifs. The chandeliers looked like grapes. It was a nice effect, he had to admit.

  Otis led him into the northeastern arm, past the library, past the rows of old armor suits. They entered one of the generic-looking study rooms, where his imperial character was being built daily. It was large, comfortable, lined with books on two of the walls, set with expensive furniture.

  Timothy stood near the entrance, just like one of those suits of armor, bobbing with heavy breathing.

  James grabbed a pitcher of lemonade from a side table and drank from it deeply.

  “Use a glass,” Otis said, pointing, annoyed.

  James ignored him. “And what’s the purpose of all this…flirting?” he said after a while.

  “Amalia will not give up her throne without a fight, that’s for sure. What she did at her father’s funeral ceremony is a good enough indicator she means war. One day, you may need to march toward Roalas and defeat your half sister in combat. You will need lots of troops for that. Private armies cost a lot of money. You will need lots of rich Caytoreans to finance your endeavor.”

  They would not even let him entertain the illusion that he might one day meet his half sister and talk to her about their separate lives, he noticed.

  “I see,” James whispered. And what would happen to a hundred thousand hired heads once he took over Roalas? Would they remain loyal to him? Most likely not. He was probably going to end a nameless, decapitated corpse in a back alley somewhere, and Athesian lands would go back to Caytor. He sighed. He needed allies. He needed friends. He needed real, genuine people he could trust and confide in.

  But that did not seem possible now. He must do something revolutionary that would shift the balance of power in his favor, ultimately, irrevocably.

  “Timothy, take the day off,” he told the boy.

  “Thank you, sir,” the servant panted. He lowered the heavy gear to the ground, rested for a moment, hauled it all up again, and lumbered away.

  James needed a strategy. He had to transform from a deputy sheriff into a powerful, cunning, and ruthless statesmen. He had to reach into a den of vipers and come out unscathed.

  He would think of something. He just needed time.

  Otis was leafing through a folder of documents, looking for something. James paced around the room, stretching his muscles, showering dust and straw and sweat onto the expensive carpets. A nameless servant stood in the corner of the room, polite, invisible, waiting for orders.

  Melville and another councillor whose name James had long forgotten entered the chamber. Stiff greetings were exchanged. Then, the half Sirtai walked in. He nodded at James. James nodded back, even as a spark of an idea exploded in his mind. He lowered his face, hiding his expression from everyone.

  His two would-be benefactors talked in low voices, arguing over something. James ignored them, brewing his new plan carefully, over and over. Several minutes later, Lady Rheanna showed up.

  James felt his entire body stiffen. His mind dissolved. He knew he was acting stupid, but he could not help it. Even the sizzle of guilt that burned in his chest was too weak against the flame of pure animal lust he felt for the Caytorean banker. It was not that he did not love Celeste; it was just that his body demanded deliverance. Whenever he carefully thought through his actions, he felt ashamed, but now was not one of those moments.

  Rheanna smiled at him. It was a broad, genuine smile of real affection. He smiled back. She was a powerful, intelligent, pleasant woman. She could hold conversation, and she seemed interested in whatever he had on his mind. Every time they talked, he badly tried to convince himself she was just another player in the game of lies and illusions, but there was nothing in her behavior or words that ever gave her away. Perhaps it was not just a perfect act. Perhaps it was no act at all.

  “Sit down, everyone,” Melville said. It was time for another midday briefing. Masters Neal and Angus shuffled in. Angus was smiling; he must have had another boring book on aristocracy for James.

  James paid little attention. His mind wandered between Rheanna and his new plan. He tried to keep his eyes to himself, but they strayed toward the woman, carefully engraving each detail of her body into the back of his mind.

  “Our prospects look good. But we must be careful,” Otis concluded. “I also recommend boosting the security at the mansion. We believe Amalia may attempt to assassinate her half brother.”

  It took a moment for James to sober up and realize that he was that half brother. “She may?” he said incredulously.

  Otis rolled his eyes. “Your Majesty, please pay attention.” He smoothed his features, becoming all diplomatic again. “Well, if she does not believe our claim, she may not think you are her family, in which case the assassination would be nothing more than a removal of a political rival.”

  “If I may interject,” Master Neal said, not really waiting for anyone’s approval. “I believe the proper honorific is Your Highness. Now that Emperor James is crowned.”

  Otis looked annoyed. “What do you prefer, my lord?”

  James made a stupid face. “I don’t know.”

  Councillor Melville sighed angrily. “Back to our matters. The emperor’s life may be at risk.”

  The future emperor of Athesia did not feel quite so imperial, but he straightened up in his chair, thinking. What if he sent a private letter to Amalia that explained it all? What if they met in secrecy and tried to talk this whole thing through? Could they become friends? Could they be allies? What was his half sister like?

  “Your Highness, you may want to consider returning the gesture.”

  James arched a brow. “Try to assassinate her?”

  Otis pursed his lips. “Definitely so. In fact, it may resolve a whole lot of things so much faster. You would spare many lives.”

  James cracked his knuckles. Things were spinning out of control. He had to think. “I don’t mind the extra security, but no assassinations.”

  The three councillors seemed displeased. Rheanna nodded in support. Master Neal smiled.

  “I will think about this carefully,” James added.

  You wield no power. You’re a puppet. They will do as they please, his inner voice told him. He had nothing against them. He had no leverage. He had to find some, now. He glanced at the half Sirtai.

  They adjourned about an hour later, James’s head swimming with new information, most of it monochrome bureaucracy and politics. He could understand law and justice, but the intrigues of the court were like a rash on his skin. He wanted to scratch them bloody raw.

  Now, his plan.

  “A word with you, magic wielder,” he said, surprising everyone. The half Sirtai kept his face impassive, but he was obviously intrigued. Otis looked as if someone had kicked him in the dingleberries. “We will have a private word, thank you.”

  They left. They had no choice.

  “I don’t know your name,” James told the man, up close, inches from one anoth
er. It was a whisper. His heart thundered.

  The half Sirtai was quiet for a moment. A long, painful moment of silence. “Adelbert,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you,” James said. “Now, Adelbert, I want to ask you something. Think carefully before you answer. What do you want?”

  The other man did not move. His face was like stone.

  “Don’t answer yet,” James continued. “Think about it. If you become my friend, I will do everything in my power to make it happen, whatever it is. I have no friends at this place. I don’t even know what your allegiances are. You may report this conversation to other people, but I would prefer it stayed private.”

  No response. The magic wielder could have been a statue.

  “The one thing I know is that you’re not a Caytorean councillor. And you’re the only person who has not flashed a fake smile at me. For some reason, I find that reassuring.” James hoped he did not sound tacky. He meant everything he said.

  “I need your help. I want to survive this thing. I can’t do it alone. Help me, and you will have my gratitude forever.”

  Adelbert was not a big speaker, it seemed. He let James fret for several minutes. Then, he just turned and left, not a word spoken. James cursed silently. He had just made a fool of himself.

  Angry, annoyed by his display of weakness, James went for a long walk. His steps took him out of the mansion and into a hedge garden, one of the many serving both as decor and a line of defense. Unless you had a bird’s-eye view of the estate, you would have a hard time approaching the villa proper without drawing attention or getting lost.

  He was repeating the conversation inside his head, a million times over, small variations of what really happened creeping in. Sometimes, Adelbert said something. Sometimes, he made an expression. But in real life, he had kept quiet, and James felt like an idiot.

  “Am I disturbing you?” Lady Rheanna called.

  James turned. She shadowed him, twenty paces away. She looked hesitant.

  “Please, join me,” he said, his heart racing again.

  She inched closer, but not too close. The time they spent together had given her ample opportunity to calibrate her feminine skills to perfection. She had practiced with perfumes, hairstyle, jewelry, clothing, and gestures until she was certain she always wore the best match for him. And it worked.

  It made him feel important. She cared. He did not know her reasons, but she put a whole lot of effort into making him more comfortable whenever she was around. Even if she might be after glory and power like everybody else.

  Rheanna seemed to have realized he did not have much experience with women, so she did not press. He did speak to her of Celeste now and then, more as a reassurance to himself than a real attempt to create a reality of a relationship he no longer had. The concepts of intimacy in Caytor were much different from a small, secluded town in northern Eracia.

  Celeste was the only woman he had ever courted. It had been a prescribed deal, with strict rules that left little room to imagination and games. A respectable member of the community, the deputy sheriff was a token of morality and courtesy. He was expected to marry her, if for no other reason than the two of them had managed to stay together for some time. Their parents approved, hers mostly. His mother was more liberal, but she kept private and true to her identity as a widow and scribe. If only he had known the truth earlier.

  He wondered if Celeste were merely a manifestation of simple life. He believed he loved her, but he knew nothing about the core issues that a couple might face. They would have learned those once they got married. Sweet flirtation was all he ever got in Windpoint.

  And then, he had seen life in all its decadent glory at his hideout mansion. Caytorean ladies were free, wild, deliberate, and confident. They were powerful and opinionated. And they lived by moral standards so much different from rural Eracia. It had been a shock, a genuine disappointment, a sweet ecstasy.

  Now, though, he was learning to cope with this new reality. The shock had paled; the rough edges had worn off. The glitter no longer dazzled him. He was no longer just a simple country boy. In a way, deep down, he was glad he had never settled down. His life as a man of the law had kept him single for longer than most people in the town. At eighteen, many of his friends were married and had children. He had somehow escaped that fate. Their mockery and friendly jibes no longer mattered.

  And that made life at the mansion more exciting. He yearned to immerse himself in the never-ending game of flirtation and seduction. And at the same time, he felt embarrassed and ashamed. He was totally out of his depth. At best, he could pretend his confusion and fear were disinterest.

  Not around Rheanna. She was a master at what she did. Probably because she did not try to force him into this alien world of belief and morals. She let him make his own choices. He was glad for it. But his body knew no boundaries of court and etiquette. It cried for deliverance. His sinning hardly made any difference. It did not quench the fire in his soul.

  “Are you happy here, Your Highness?” she asked, breaking his reverie.

  “I’m confused,” he confessed. “Nothing seems real. It’s all one big game.”

  “I’m real,” she said and lightly touched his arm.

  He swallowed. He did not know what to say.

  “Tell me more about your betrothed,” she said after a while.

  James could have sworn it was mockery, but her face showed only genuine interest. He relented. The facade of doubt was crumbling slowly. There was only so much uncertainty a human could handle. It needed a truth to cling to. He gave up. This had to be true.

  He sighed. “She liked when I took her hiking and showed her how to follow badger tracks or how to spot which mushrooms are poisonous,” he started and drifted into a story. It was mostly disjointed bits and pieces. His heart was not in it. His story sounded dull, uneventful. It sounded ancient and impersonal, as if it had happened to some stranger a long time ago.

  He had received a letter from his mother last week, but still hadn’t written back. The councillors had vehemently objected to him keeping in touch with his family, claiming it could jeopardize their plans, expose his mother’s identity, expose his location. Someone might decide to take her hostage in order to control him, they said.

  But he could not just forget her. So he’d bribed a scout unit in Otis’s garrison to run messages for him, paid them with fat gold coin that wasn’t his. For now, he was testing the man, gauging his loyalty. He had sent him on meaningless errands to nearby towns, waiting for a word of reprimand from the councillors the day after. So far, the scout seemed to like his gold well. It would be a great risk sending a Caytorean soldier into enemy territory, but a single man dressed like a forest ranger was not going to be suspected. After all, foreign convoys traveled back and forth all the time.

  His mother wrote how Celeste missed him very much and cried all the time. She wrote how she missed her son dearly. Bailiff Edmund was somewhat confused and kept asking questions. Lots of people asked after him, wondering where he’d gone. She urged him to stay true and safe and not to trust anyone.

  “Do you miss her still?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said automatically. I don’t know, he told his inner self. I probably do. But the old world he had left could not be farther.

  Dinner would be served in an hour. Then, he would go to bed and sin. This repetitive concept frustrated him. There was anger boiling in his blood. He needed a friend. He needed intimacy. He needed someone he could really talk to, spill out his real desires and fears to.

  Rheanna seemed perfect. She was everything he could hope for. But what kind of a person was he if he betrayed Celeste? What would that mean? What if he never went home? Would he never love anyone because of a promise?

  He knew about kisses and fondling, but nothing else. His friends had often teased him about that. They had all matured much earlier. He had always pretended it had never mattered to him, but it had. And now, he faced someone like Lady Rheanna
, who eclipsed the beauty of all of Windpoint, and he did not know what to do. What if she were just another fake?

  Somehow, he resisted and survived another dinner. He went back to his chambers with a slight pain in his loins and a river of white-hot anger in his blood. He undid his clothes and flopped into his big, heavy bed, naked. Something jabbed his back. He turned over and patted the silk coverings, looking for the lump. Soon, he found it, a piece of paper, folded many times over.

  He unfolded it carefully and read. It was a note from Adelbert.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sergei watched with pride. Almost the entire Parusite order of battle was arranged on the south bank of the Telore River, the serpentine line that divided the two realms. All of them pressed together, a cauldron of road dust and glistening weapons. Within a few days, they would launch the attack. In the west, Sasha’s female forces awaited command. In the east, the Oth Danesh were ready to raid the shores. Time for revenge was nearing.

  Parus ended where Athesia started in a vast expanse of wild grass and short trees and narrow strips of wheat and barley. The Telore was a shimmering silver snake wriggling through the lush fields. Tiny, isolated fishing villages and forgotten trade posts that bent knee to no king and paid no taxes dotted both shores, now under siege by his troops. No one was allowed to travel and spread word of the impeding invasion. Several thousand special troops and scouts were deployed deep into enemy territory, hunting Athesian patrols and border units. The attack would be a bloody surprise.

  Two large, flat barges were ferrying troops and animals to the far side, skimming sluggishly on the lazy water like gigantic bugs. Hundreds of smaller boats and cogs fluttered around, just recently pressed into royal service. Men cursed as their wagons skidded on wet land and mud sucked at their boots. The screech of ducks hiding in the rushes was unbearable.

  Black smoke billowed upriver, a mile away. But those weren’t fires of destruction; those were fires of labor. The place was called Bridgen, and unsurprisingly, it had a bridge, the only one for two days in either direction. Securing both the town and the crossing had been a simple thing, but the simple wooden construction hadn’t been built for tens of thousands of armored men and warhorses and carts loaded with iron and rope. His engineers were busy trying to strengthen the pillars even as his troops deployed inside enemy territory, building small, defensible outposts surrounded by dykes and spikes. All of the smiths that could be found in nearby hamlets had been conscripted. They worked alongside Parusite men, hammering day and night, building props and tools and joints for bridge support.