Gerald made sure he did not look at the empress-mother when he answered. “Yes, Your Highness.” He had not expected the quiet, reserved woman to approach him and suggest the plan for abducting the king’s firstborn during the Autumn Festival. “My daughter does not understand what it means to kill for survival,” she had told him. And then, she spoke like Adam. Nothing was sacred. There were no rules in war.
“Everyone out,” Amalia ordered. “Except Commander Gerald.”
The study emptied. Gerald realized she was waiting for him to speak. “I apologize if I overstepped my authority. But it was necessary, and I do not regret it. Your Highness.”
“Amalia,” she corrected him. Instantly, she deflated. “I want to apologize, too,” she said, sounding timid and vulnerable. The brave posture she had maintained during the ceremony oozed away.
Gerald was puzzled. “What for?”
She stepped close. “For…calling you a fool before the attack. When you didn’t return in the first wave of survivors, I thought you were lost. And I realized that if you had died that morning, my, my…” She trailed off.
Gently, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s all right.” He recalled the one time he had kissed her. She had been delirious from painkillers, insecure, lost, confused. Amalia had almost given up then. And he had promised to stand by her side, as a friend.
The only problem was, he did not really want to be her friend. He wanted more. But his craving was a childish desire. He was sworn to protect her. One day, any day, she might order him to die for her or kill someone in her name. Love had no place in that hierarchy. Did it?
I’m a fool all right, he thought.
She scrunched her face, suppressing tears. “Do whatever you need to save this city,” she said, changing the subject. “Now, I want to visit the hostage.”
On the way down into the dungeons, Gerald wondered what he might yet need to do to protect Roalas from destruction or starvation. Even if he could stay the Parusite forces indefinitely, sooner or later, they would run out of food. Time was not on his side. He needed another Night of Surprises, ten times over.
Perhaps this prince-heir might be exactly what he needed. In a way, he felt odd abducting a child of fifteen from his bed, but the boy was a military leader. The enemy king knew the risks when he brought him along on this campaign. There was no room for pity and niceties.
Torches sputtered and hissed angrily. The dungeon air was wet and thick with gases, which made the flames burn green and blue. Smoke veiled like the finest gauze near the low, barrel-shaped ceiling. The corridors narrowed, steps turned into rough-hewn bulges. Slick with damp and wear, rusted hand-railings became lengths of slack and mold-eaten rope.
The imperial dungeons were disused wine cellars, but they had plenty of space for criminals. Vlad the Younger was their first occupant in a long time. Gerald had changed to functional leathers, and Amalia was wearing a tweed cape and cowl to keep the filth away. Her bodyguard Jerrica and half a dozen soldiers accompanied her to see the new guest.
No one knew the identity of the lone prisoner except the men who had carried out the mission and a few more of Luke’s secret guards. Gerald intended to keep it that way for now. He nodded at the two burly men guarding the cell. After this visit, he would ask Luke to double the detail.
Without a word, one of the men opened the cell door. Amalia and Gerald stepped in.
The boy was sitting on the cold, wet floor in total darkness, huddled to keep warm. His hair was disheveled, his face grubby and maybe even bruised. He was wearing a white nightshirt and breeches, hardly the attire of a royal heir.
He grimaced at the sudden flood of light. Then, he rose and lashed out. “What kind of treatment is this for a member of the royal family? I am Prince-Heir Vlad of Parus, and I demand to be accorded the proper accommodation befitting my class.”
Gerald recalled the stories about the Parusite weird sense of honor. If you were born noble, you got special privileges even when you were found butchering your worst enemy’s entire family. If they didn’t kill you outright, you were given food and clothes and entertainment, sort of what the hundreds of Eracian and Caytorean hostages enjoyed right now. If you were born in the gutters, your only option was death.
“In Athesia, class means nothing,” he told the boy.
“This is outrageous,” Vlad howled, seemingly undaunted by his miserable state.
“You will show proper respect when you address the empress of this realm,” Gerald warned. He realized simple logic was probably not going to work.
The boy grimaced. “So you’re the daughter of Adam the Godle—”
Gerald cuffed him. It wasn’t a strong blow, but it knocked him off his feet. “Manners, boy.”
Vlad was silent, rubbing his cheek. “Your Highness,” he rasped, “I protest my condition.”
Amalia took a moment to respond. “Your father seeks to destroy my nation. He’s led a war of destruction against Athesia, unprovoked. Do you honestly expect fair treatment while my people are murdered in their thousands by his soldiers?”
“My father is being too lenient. He hasn’t killed anyone,” Vlad whispered. “You are unbelievers.”
“You’re in this cell for your own safety,” she said, ignoring his outrage. Gerald had briefed her on the way down, but it was still amazing to see the boy’s indignant attitude. Either he was in total shock or absolutely unaware of his fate.
“My safety!” the boy cried.
“Every Athesian would gladly rip the heart from your chest. You are here so you will live to write to your father.” Gerald reached into a pouch cinched at the back of his belt and handed Vlad a small bundle. Inside, there was a piece of paper, folded in four, ink and stylus, ash shaker, a candle stub, some matches, a blob of red wax, and Vlad’s signet ring, also snatched from the Parusite camp.
“You will ask your father to withdraw all his forces from Athesia and go back to Parus. Once he has completed the withdrawal, as an act of good faith, you will be transferred into a more comfortable prison, aboveground. You will enjoy the comforts and perks befitting someone of your status. After ten years, you will be released back home. Meanwhile, I will work with your father on reparations and possibly even favorable trade deals.” Amalia smiled.
Vlad was silent for a moment. He threw the bundle on the floor. The inkpot clanked loudly, but did not shatter or leak. “I will not write and beg for my life! My father will destroy you.”
Amalia continued. “If you cooperate, I think we can work out a deal where your wife and your soon-to-be-born child will be brought to Roalas so you can be together. Would you not like to see your child grow? Life without a father can be awfully difficult.” The statement had a double meaning.
Vlad snarled, but he said nothing. Gerald hovered nearby, ready to strike him again, if needed. Vlad maintained his bravado for a few more breaths, but then he broke. A boy imprisoned in a dark cell, he collapsed back onto the floor.
“Besides, if you do not write the letter, we will start executing your father’s dukes and counts. One every day until you come around. Do you understand that, boy?”
Vlad’s eyes flickered between Gerald and the empress, trying to feel a scab of a lie. But the two faces watching him were smooth and cold. “You’re lying,” he tried weakly.
Gerald stepped closer, towering. “If we managed to abduct you right from under your father’s nose, why do you think we couldn’t have done the same with a few more Parusite nobles?”
Doubt was beginning to creep in, Gerald noted. First, the Night of Surprises, now this. Good. He was in no mood to beat a child into submission. Not a child, a royal prince and war leader, he corrected himself. He must never forget that.
“Don’t be a hero. This cell is too cold, too damp, too dark. I hear rats come out from cracks in the walls to nibble on toes and ears when you’re sleeping. Your pride won’t do much. We can forge the letter and stamp it with your seal, but if you’re your father’s son, you
will write the letter.”
The prince-heir said nothing, but it was obvious he was broken. He seemed so utterly bent on honor and bravery, so Gerald only needed to convince him that being a cooperative hostage was the honorable and courageous thing to do. And it truly was.
“Someone will come later to collect the letter,” Amalia said. “Ask the guards for more light if you need it.” She turned and left.
Gerald remained a moment more, watching the Parusite carefully. There was a rusty sconce hammered into the wall, a later addition to the cells. Wine cellars would never tolerate open flame. Gerald placed his torch there, nodded, and left.
“I left my torch in there,” he told the guards. “Make sure he doesn’t use it as a club. I want him shuffled to a different cell every day, randomly.” If anyone tried to break into the prison, they would waste valuable time trying to find the hostage in the warren of cells.
Inside, Vlad sat on the floor, exhausted, cold, hurting. He picked up the stylus, but then he put it down. He curled into a ball, lay on his side, and started whimpering quietly. “Mommy,” was what he said, had anyone bothered to listen.
CHAPTER 42
Sergei sat in the tent, alone.
It was midday, but inside, no lamp was lit, and a gray darkness pervaded the space. Rain was hammering on the canvas, making the folds sag, turning the king’s war chamber that much smaller. But for all he was concerned, wildfire could have been raging outside. It made little difference to him.
On the table before him rested a wooden cup of wine, untouched, a silver-hilt poniard, and a letter from Sigurd, freshly arrived that morning by a swift messenger, a man dead tired and caked in brown mud from tip to toe. It read the bittersweet yet happy news of the premature birth of his grandson, a whole four weeks before the Autumn Festival.
So much for lucky omens.
Despite his small size, the prince seemed to have been born fully developed, with fingernails and eyelids and even tiny blond brows. And he was breathing well, a critical sign. Now, it was up to the gods to keep him safe and healthy.
If only the boy’s father could enjoy the news. But Vlad was a hostage in the hands of his enemies, hopefully alive and well. The Athesian terms were written in another letter, but that one he had burned in the fire the moment he had finished reading it.
Sergei wondered if all of what was happening to him was a great test from the gods. Or just an unlucky coincidence. Well, not entirely. For all he knew, his grandson might be dead by now, stricken by winter fever. Lord Vasiliy, gods bless him, had waited almost a week before sending out the letter, but there was just no knowing with babies. They were such fragile, vulnerable things.
And his son?
A man grown by all accounts, but still a child. He wondered how the boy fared in the hands of his captors. Were they treating him well? Was he granted the privileges of his station? There was no knowing with those faithless bastards. They had no honor, no respect for birthright and class. They treated commoners and nobles alike. It was disgusting.
Amalia’s terms had been simple. Go back to your lands, and your son will live. As simple as that. She had even baited him with favorable trade agreements and other terms. Vlad had written that letter, but the Athesians may have forced him.
The truth was, he really did not have any choice. He could not stop now even if his entire family was in the hands of his foes. Sergei had committed his nation to war. There was no going back. Half a year ago, things had looked rather simple. But his endeavor had turned into a wild, uncontrollable beast. It feasted on blood and could not be sated.
There was an old saying, “Wars begin when you will, but they do not end when you please.” Well, he had started this war. And he was going to end it.
But first, there was justice to be had.
Sergei stood up, grabbed the cup, and downed the wine in one go. He picked up the knife, turning it around, staring at the spotless metal. He put the weapon down. The poniard would not do, he decided. He went into a corner, where a large cache of his weapons was stashed, rack upon rack of swords and shields, plates of armor, crossbows, and even a double-headed ax. He was in no habit of naming his blades like the fathers of his nation had done before him, but there was no mistaking the purpose of the all-black greatsword that his squires dutifully lugged around. It was not a battlefield weapon, at least not designed for a medium-built rider like himself, but it looked like the right tool for what he was about to do.
“Giorgi!” he shouted.
The scribe entered the tent, soaking wet. “Your Highness?”
Sergei put the sword on the table. “Summon them.”
One by one, his war council filed in, dukes and archdukes and most of the counts. They looked miserable. For the past three hours, he had left them waiting for him in the thundering rain. In the darkness of the tent, it was hard gauging their expressions, but their eyes were wide open and shiny with fear.
A king is as good as the men he commands, Sergei thought. He ruled by their grace. If they chose so, they might depose him. There might be some bloodshed, but he would cease being their king if they decided he was unworthy of his reign. And he would not be the first king to die by the hands of his nobles. I left them in the rain like mongrels, and they obeyed. Why? Because none of them has the guts to be the first to object. No one wants to be the tragic hero who will redeem the others. So they wait, eternally wait, for someone to tell them what to do. That’s what being king is all about. You make the first decision.
All of these men had failed him. Two weeks ago, during the festival, his son had been kidnapped right under their noses. Not the first, not the second, not the third ring of sentries had noticed anything. Not the personal bodyguards, not the squires, not the spies and informants in the city, no one. They had let the prince-heir be taken into the city. In the end, a lowly servant had discovered his son was missing.
Sergei had not panicked. He had roused the camp, for fear of infiltrators and assassins. He had readied his troops for another surprise attack. But the first day oozed away uneventfully. The defenders on the curtain walls never cheered or taunted or fired extra shots. In fact, they had looked surprised and alarmed by the stirring along the Parusite siege lines.
In a moment of mad despair, the king had hoped his son might have just gotten lost during the celebrations, wandered away somewhere, dozed off in a pile of pelts, or fell into the hands of some woman. But his son never drank or whored.
On the morrow, the letter arrived.
A company of riders exited the city gates with the gray flag of truce extended on a tall banner, weaved through the Inferno quickly, and tossed a rolled bundle at the first wary guard they found. “Deliver this to your king,” they said and rode back.
He had read the letter, retreated to his tent, and stayed there, thinking. He had replayed his entire life three times over in his head. Memories long buried in the deep recesses of his mind burned bright with every detail. Terrified lords had begged to see him, but Sergei would not allow anyone to speak to him save Sasha. He had caged himself in the tent—and he let his mind race.
He recalled all he knew about his father’s defeat, about his father’s greedy and foolish choices. He recalled the abuse he had suffered at his hands as a child. He thought about his sister. His eldest son, now a captive in Roalas. All his other children, his wife, Vasiliy, everyone who mattered to him in life. He wondered how they perceived him now, hiding inside a drenched, gloomy pavilion, avoiding the terrible decision he must make.
Save the nation and sacrifice his son.
Sergei tried imagining a thousand ways of resolving this conflict. He acted out hundreds of conversations with Amalia and her cursed commander, Gerald, he thought about peace deals with Caytor and Eracia, he practiced hostage negotiations. Every time, the outcome was the same. He was leading Parus to glory or utter destruction. If he retreated, the nation would descend into civil war. His plunder-hungry dukes would tear the realm apart, fighting over scraps lik
e street dogs. His reign would become meaningless.
War was a simple thing in the books. You had the belligerents, and you had motives. It sounded so simple, so logical. People clashed and died. Some won; others lost. In between, you had politics and scheming weaved, but no book ever told you about emotions. No book taught you about self-doubt, selfish love, hatred, fear, confusion, hasty decisions and bitter regrets, sheer stubborn pride, the mistrust of your lieges, the envy of your family, the scars and ghosts of your past, fate.
“My lords, you have all failed me,” he said simply.
Archduke Bogomir squirmed uncomfortably. The man looked like a ghost, wrecked with shame. He had lost weight, and his cheeks were sunken in his face. As the father-in-law, he bore the personal responsibility for Vlad’s safety.
Sergei lifted the big executioner’s sword and approached him. “You failed me,” he said.
“Your Highness, I am at your mercy,” Bogomir wailed and went down on one knee.
The king lifted the big weapon, thinking. Slowly, he let the blade fall to the ground. Killing Bogomir would accomplish nothing. He left the archduke kneeling and approached Duke Yuri. The man looked genuinely terrified. Sergei said nothing and stepped to the right.
There was something in Kiril’s face that had annoyed him since the day he took the command of the Talkers from him. None of his generals was a coward, but Kiril came close. Sergei did not like cowards.
“I want you to volunteer. I want you all to volunteer,” Sergei spoke, staring woodenly at Kiril, never quite blinking. “My son’s project must be finished. I want those siege engines completed. The city’s gate must be stormed and razed. I want it done before the year’s end.”
Bogomir was the first to swear. “I will lead the attack, sire.”
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 48