The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  She groaned and dug her fingernails into his ribs. He felt himself approaching climax rapidly, inevitably. Pull out, pull out, a tiny voice at the back of his head screamed. Pull out! He started trembling wildly. He bumped into her savagely.

  At the last second, he pulled out. He moaned loudly as he spilled his seed on her belly. She was panting, watching him intently, he realized a few moments later, when sanity came back to him. Spent, he slumped sideways. Rheanna laid a hand on his chest.

  What have I done? he thought. In the quiet pond of regret that came after mindless lust, he wondered what this meant. Had he just erased Celeste from his heart? Had he just become a heartless, conniving son of a bitch like the rest of them? Or was he just a stupid boy, maybe in love?

  He had no answers. He just knew that he wanted Rheanna. He wanted her body so badly, but most of all, he wanted her affection, her friendship. He needed her. Nigella’s advice rolled inside his head, and it felt like an accusation.

  CHAPTER 30

  The throne hall was a majestic piece of architecture. Built three centuries earlier by Monarch Vergil the Brave, when the Eracian borders had stretched another hundred leagues to the west and her massive armies threatened the whole of the realms, it was a statement of power and grandeur: long and narrow, paved with white marble veined in red, with slender columns to both sides of a carpeted walkway. Basking in blinding daylight striking through glazed panes on both sides of the vaulted chamber, any petitioner would have a lot of time to contemplate his fate before approaching the monarch.

  Behind the dais, a black granite statue of Vergil rose, grim, majestic, imposing, seventeen feet tall, with the nation’s legendary ruler calmly clasping the cross guard of his large stone sword. In his day, Vergil had been the scourge of the land. And since his death, Eracia had only gotten smaller and feebler, Margrave Philip thought.

  Today, the hall stood empty, quiet and cold.

  Philip headed behind the dais, behind the statues. Hidden by a wall of drapes and ornamental armor suits, there was another door carved in the back wall. Later monarchs had fashioned the secret exit as an escape route. It also allowed help and scribes to come and go unseen, adding tactical advantage when Leopold held court.

  Muted sounds of random, erratic glee echoed through the padded leather of the side door discreetly tucked into the lavish masonry. Margrave Philip patiently waited for the cue to enter. At his side, a big, burly royal guard stood quietly, breathing heavily through his nose.

  The monarch was entertaining his daily mandatory one hour with his retarded son.

  The Council Chamber, also known as the Chamber of Negotiations, had served as the unofficial seat of governance in Somar for decades. Leopold rarely presided in the big throne chair, leaving it to the memories of his grandfathers, who had seen much happier days for their realm. Only when the dire necessity of protocol dictated, the monarch would be there, but then he would be in a foul mood, sulking, impatient, more than his usual quota.

  The noises subsided. Margrave Philip tapped on the door and waited. A latch opened. He entered.

  Prince Ludwig was sitting in the big sandbox set in the center of the room, showering dirt around him with a small wooden spade. He was making thin purring noises and would occasionally cluck like a pigeon. That sand belonged outside, Philip thought, but the monarch would not allow his son to play in the gardens. He drew too much attention, even though everyone was fully aware of the boy’s affliction. Leopold preferred to have servants move the furniture away and lug the sandbox in and out and fill it with buckets of sand, then sweep the floors clean for the meetings. Every day.

  The Council Chamber was the only place Leopold could really let his son be. Private rooms always had snoopy, chatty help lurking about. This place was strictly off-limits without the ruler’s explicit approval.

  It wasn’t the cretin’s fault, but the boy would put anything in his mouth, be it leaves or cat’s feces. And other children would pick on him, their mean animal instincts sensing the inferior thing among their herd and trying their best to oust him. Leopold could spend his entire day punishing people for misbehaving toward an idiot, or he could keep the idiot away.

  The monarch was standing by the door, a vexed look on his face. He was gripping a golden watch in his hand and looking at the tiny dials. The hour would be up soon. And then, it would be the child’s mother’s responsibility to take care of him. Queen Diana kept the boy in the solarium, reading books and singing to him.

  Philip kept a straight face and waited. They never discussed business around the boy. He might not comprehend much, but he sometimes repeated words with alarming accuracy. Matters of state were best left to after the sandbox hour.

  It was soon over. Leopold went out through the opposite door and summoned the servants. Chief Steward Kai entered and led the unresisting boy away. Leopold ignored the man’s stare. Then, the servants came in, emptied the sand back into jute bags, hauled the wooden crate away, and swept the floor clean with willow brooms. Even so, a fine filigree of particles remained, hissing underfoot. The liveried men rushed the expensive mahogany desks and chairs back in. The wood screeched on the cold stone.

  The chamber was relatively small and square, big enough for a small number of people to sit down and discuss important things. It had no windows, but it did have two flights of balconies for an audience, clerks, scribes, adjutants, accountants, support staff, and guards waiting on the assembly. A large chandelier hung from the distant ceiling, illuminating the room.

  Leopold wiped his hands on a wet towel and headed for the stairs. He liked having private meetings with Philip on the top floor, looking down at the checkerboard flagstones. Lounged in fat sofas and sipping wine, they started discussing the future of the realms.

  “I’ve received a note from Count Bartholomew,” Philip said. “He hasn’t made any progress.”

  The monarch snorted. It had been four months since the count left. His last message, sent almost a month and a half ago, placed him in the hands of Red Caps. He had not been admitted audience to the Parusite king, and his sister was keeping him on a tight leash. He had not conveyed his frustration in so few simple words, but the communiqué was clear. It was not a big surprise. Bart was a spineless coward.

  At least there was no threat of a Parusite invasion yet. Their southern cousins were focusing on ruining Athesia. But they had not made any assurances about what they intended to do with the hostages in the city. What would happen after Roalas fell? Would the Eracian nobles and dignitaries find themselves free to go home? Hostages to a new enemy? What if they accidentally died in the assault? He had valuable allies, even kin, among the captives. The situation made Leopold furious. He hated indecision. He hated uncertainty.

  “He’s met with King Sergei, Your Majesty,” Philip continued. “But like Princess Sasha, he made no promises. My guess is the Parusites are waiting for us to make some kind of a gesture.”

  “Of course they are,” Leopold snapped. “You would too if you were winning a war and had two hundred thousand soldiers behind your banner. But I won’t let them humiliate me.” He rocked in the chair, clearly agitated. “What does your insider report?”

  Philip grimaced. “He’s had a difficult time sending information. He thinks at least one or two of his messages may have been intercepted by the Parusites. Bart tried being smart and let one of his men sneak away, but my agent thinks the Parusites know that. It looks as though the count is being loyal and true to the cause.”

  “Well, at least there’s that.” The monarch reached for an overripe pear resting on a silver platter. He picked the fruit, wrinkled his nose, and tossed it back onto the tray. “So, I have nothing. I have a count who’s too yellow to negotiate in my name. He’s being played a fool by the Parusites, and he doesn’t even know it. And your spy’s making excuses for his failures. Brilliant.”

  Philip wanted to point out the slight matter of spying on an enemy from its midst four weeks of ride time away from friendl
y land, but he kept his mouth shut. It was pointless arguing with the monarch sometimes. Well, always.

  He did not envy Leopold, though. The man was trying to revive a dead monarchy, still wallowing in its abysmal humiliation of two decades ago. The army was in tatters, dispirited, disorganized, weak. Even the threat of the Parusite invasion had done little to stir the nation into action. Across the realm, army commanders were trying to whip their fives into a semblance of order, wrestling with apathy and poor skills. It would take a year or more before the Eracians were ready for any kind of serious warfare. What the country begged for was a legend like Adam.

  Leopold was losing patience. He was on the verge of inviting nomad warlords to his throne room and asking them for assistance.

  Philip watched the monarch, trying to read his mind. He hoped he would never do that. The last thing Eracia needed was a horde of mercenaries invading it under the pretext of an alliance. Philip’s spies were reporting more than just what Bart had to say. King Sergei had foolishly thought bringing in the Oth Danesh would be a wise move. And now, they were ravaging Caytor, completely out of control, threatening his mission and precipitating another war. Unlike Eracia, Caytor had powerful, well-paid private armies. It could strike back.

  Worst of all, enlisting the nomads would be a clear declaration of intentions that could not be misinterpreted. The Parusites would know their neighbors meant to challenge the invasion of Athesia. They could even take it for an open gesture of war. They might believe Eracia was coming to Empress Amalia’s aid. A show of force could turn into a bloody war, with Eracia having less than one-third of the men ready to fight the Parusites.

  Their war was not all going according to plan, though. The lightning attack had stagnated into a slow, dirty siege. Temporary tent camps had grown into small villages. With the rains pouring and the winter settling in, there would be starvation and disease. The fields were empty, and the roads were muddy. The Parusites would have a hard time sustaining their campaign. And then, the Athesians were refusing to surrender, fighting tooth and nail, hanging on despite all odds. It seemed the Parusite war engine was not invincible, but Philip hated the notion of putting that slim hope to the test.

  However, of all things, it was Count Bartholomew who fascinated Philip the most. He was an intriguing phenomenon. He was changing, a rare quality in anyone above the age of five. He was losing some of his soft naivety, growing tough and cheeky. The soldiers respected him, which was surprising considering his reputation as a cowardly clerk. Perhaps Bart could carry his crazy idea through and make the Parusite king listen to reason. He would no doubt earn a title if he managed it. And if he did not, the heaps of casualties that would pile up in the subsequent war with Parus would wash away his failure in a river of blood.

  Which reminded him. “Countess Sonya wishes to see you, Your Majesty.”

  Leopold groaned. “No, not again. I can’t stand that conniving bitch.”

  Philip blinked tactfully. “She wants to discuss the management of her husband’s estates. Again.”

  The king inhaled deeply, trying to contain himself. “How many times must she hear it?”

  Until she gets what she wants, Philip thought. “Should I summon her?”

  “All right. So be it.” Leopold reached for another piece of fruit, then changed his mind. He leaned back and waited.

  Philip left the chamber, searching after the countess. Half an hour later, he returned, the woman in tow behind him. Normally, it would be the chief steward ushering guests in, but the monarch let only Philip around when he discussed very delicate matters.

  Half an hour, Leopold thought, vexed. That was an awfully long time to let the realm’s ruler wait, he thought sourly. But he liked to spend his mornings in the chamber, away from the noise of the realm, away from all the ugly, annoying people.

  The woman was wearing a simple dappled green dress, with just a tad of gold leaf on the hem. She was not here for show, Leopold noted.

  “Your Majesty,” Countess Sonya said, bowing slightly.

  “Countess,” Leopold acknowledged, staring at the floor below.

  Philip waited for the ruler to dismiss him. The monarch usually held private sessions with his court members in four eyes, so none could really know what he plotted with their peers, most likely scattering false promises and forging shady deals. He would tell them one thing, then assemble the Privy Council and tell them another, keeping everyone on edge, resentful, wary, mistrusting. Leopold was not a man of great honor, but he was skilled in the art of forestalling. And then, there was the simple matter of him being embarrassed of some of the concessions he had to make to keep the throne.

  Philip alone had lent the monarch three hundred thousand gold crowns for the Spring Festival. In return, he had been promised generous loans and favorable trade deals, but like a child without eyes, these had been strangled at birth. Leopold owed half the realm’s nobles uncountable sums of money, which they would probably never see. But they had invested so heavily in his ideas and plans, hopeful that one day they would see the fruit of his vision, that none dared stop now. It would shatter the illusion.

  It also meant the monarch really had no power. But he had a lot of anger and frustration. For generations, the failing wars with Caytor and the dwindling commerce had robbed the crown of its power. Eracia was slowly degenerating into what Caytor was now, a collection of rich people who cared nothing for birthright. In Caytor, you could be a bastard born in the gutter, but you were worthier than a duke if you shat gold. It was a dreadful prospect. And perversely, Eracia’s finest continued spending their wealth on a powerless man, hoping for a miracle.

  The birth of Athesia had actually given Eracia its first real chance in generations. The sudden boom of trade had made the realm richer. No one cared to admit it, especially not the monarch, but he was much better off than he had ever been, all because of a lowborn soldier called Adam. An infuriating thought. Without wars to re-impoverish him every summer, he could actually focus on rebuilding his power, taking some of it away from his court. But the threatening war with Parus had shattered that dream. So now, Leopold counted on military glory to improve his position. And that meant bringing tens of thousands of barbarians into Eracia.

  The nobles all opposed the idea. They might even persuade the monarch, without sounding like traitors; besides, they did fear the Parus could attack, after all. But it would mean dashing their hope for greatness once and for all. Eracia would remain a shriveled little realm, scorned and ignored. So they stalled, just like their ruler, torn between greed and fear.

  Philip thought all of this and more as he watched Bart’s wife ascend the stairwell to the second balcony, where Leopold lounged, feigning boredom, focusing on his manicured fingernails. She swayed the way conniving bitches swayed, but the impression was lost on Philip. He just hoped the monarch used more than his pair of raisins when he negotiated with women of the court.

  One thing was sure; Sonya was not here to discuss war. She wanted to see if she could gain yet more power, exploiting the situation while her husband was away. Oh, she hated him for leaving the realm, but that did not stop her from trying her charm on whoever promised power and class.

  Leopold made a small sign with his hand. Philip left the chamber. Outside, the guard stood like a bored statue, watching the throne hall impassively. Another soldier guarded the second entrance, which led to the gardens. There ought to be more men, but Leopold didn’t have money to waste.

  Philip had a lot to do, keep the realm running, protect the monarch from revolutions, and make sure he wasn’t the only one left high and dry when bounty finally swept the realm. That, or catastrophe. He was going to have a council with Quade, Dietrich, and the rest, what few were left now that most of the high nobility was taken hostage in Roalas. Most of all, he needed to make sure the monarch did not invite mercenaries into Eracia. His feet padded on the red-veined marble. The patterns looked ominously sanguinary.

  “What do you want?” Leop
old asked.

  Sonya curtsied formally. She tried to look demure, but her annoyance was etched into her face. “Your Majesty, I want to discuss the status of my husband’s la—”

  “No.” Leopold cut her off. “We talked about this several times. My decision remains.”

  She suppressed a snarl. “Your Majesty,” she began again, patiently. “Granting me the ownership would allow me to settle a number of important business deals, which I cannot do now that my husband is abroad. This is a major financial setback for Barrin.”

  Leopold pursed his lips. It was a major setback for her, she meant. Countess Sonya was a cruel, manipulative, merciless, and above all capable businesswoman. She handled her husband’s estates and mills with military efficiency. She exploited every opportunity to have more power, usually by loaning seemingly favorable sums to colleagues in distress, then holding them in ransom forever. Count Bartholomew was not from one the more powerful noble families in the realm, but he sure was rather rich, mainly because of his wife, who had all the traits of the sleaziest Caytorean merchant. Everyone was in her debt, one way or another—or rather her husband’s, at least on paper. Even the crown owned Count Bartholomew tons of money. Luckily, the man was humble and withdrawn and didn’t care much for intrigue. Unlike his serpent of a wife.

  Sonya counted on the fact Leopold owed money to her husband, always trying to negotiate more power, more rights. She coveted the title of a margravine, which Leopold stubbornly refused to grant her. But he knew it would have to be done one day.

  “As we agreed,” he said wearily, “if your husband manages to save our hostages without bloodshed, he will become a margrave. Isn’t this enough for you?” Sending Bart away had annoyed her profoundly. He could only guess what vile plans he had spoiled for her when he’d let the count leave on his mission. Well, he couldn’t blame the man. But after a few days of quiet fretting, she had concocted her new evil deals.