The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Read online

  One thing Sergei clearly did not remember was the huge blot of houses, chimneys, barns, and low sheds spread before him. This used to be empty land, fields and grass and an occasional tree. Now, his passage was blocked by a city that outsized Keron. Terrifying as much as it was astonishing.

  There was a delegation of peasants and workers waiting for him, several hundred, a human wall that did not ooze love and loyalty.

  “Borya,” he called. The lieutenant of the guard nudged his horse around. “I want to avoid any confrontations. Keep the men alert, but do not draw weapons, and do not respond to provocations.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the soldier barked.

  Sergei looked at Gavril’s camp again. The men were not armed for battle, but they surely did not radiate peace and compassion. They were well tanned, hardy, and confident. Religion was a very powerful motivator. He wished he could feel some of their conviction.

  One of the messengers trotted forward and handed his missive to a likely looking leader of the other group. The man frowned stupidly at the letter, obviously intimidated by written words. Still, without saying anything, he was gone, carrying the message into the camp.

  Sergei decided to put all slights and humiliations away, to completely ignore them. There was no purpose to protocol and finesse right now. He wanted to see what this Gavril really wanted. Was it power? Recognition? Something else entirely? Sergei had dealt with rebels before. He had put down and repelled his share of insurrections and raids across Parus. He understood how the mob mentality worked and how, sometimes, people simply felt compelled by the circumstances, unable to back down from silly threats and empty bravado. He understood this Gavril might not be looking to challenge his rule, but he could end up doing that if the meeting went sour.

  The best way to resolve the situation was to talk to the holy man. In fact, he had already done a great deal by coming over. Not weakness, strength.

  As he waited, he tried to glimpse past the welcoming party into this new town. There was a lot of activity there, just as you would expect from a living, breathing place, full of commerce and craft. People were going about their business, nourishing and growing the camp. That gave him some small hope. Folk bent on building things tended to be less keen on destroying them.

  It wasn’t long before a person came forward, so much like everyone else, yet entirely different. He wasn’t young or old, ugly or handsome, tall or short, or anything of that sort. There was nothing special about him. Just an average, ordinary person, with the perfect measure of common and noble. He bore with mechanical precision that was almost too artfully sharp to watch. Dressed in a simple gray robe, he was followed by a boy and a reserved fellow with a long, dangling moustache. That one was armed, a large, wicked ax hanging from his hip. A whole flock of other people trailed behind, keeping their distance, but it was obvious they wanted to be close to this man. He could feel their adoration, rising like desert heat off the sand. There was a palpable change in the atmosphere, suddenly going soft, mellow, and pleasant. He couldn’t hear the throats groaning, but it was as if the air had turned savory and fresh. The human wall buckled, parting to let the man pass through.

  There was no mistaking his identity.

  Sergei noticed even his retinue was charmed by this Gavril person. Soldiers looked that less tense, that less likely to unsheathe their swords and lop heads off. Their eyes glistened, their mouths hanging slightly open, a breath of surprise on their lips. Genrik was almost smiling. Even Theo looked vibrant and cheerful.

  Sergei felt a positive beat of good humor spreading through his body, as if he had just sampled the best kumiss. He realized his anger was seeping away. He tried to will himself to be sharp and nervous and assertive, but his muscles would not respond.

  “Greetings, Your Highness,” the robed person called. “I am Gavril.” His voice was clear, beautiful. “I am most honored by your presence. It takes a great man to leave his castle and visit his subjects. Like a willow that bends before the wind but endures long after the wind has passed.”

  Sergei blinked, feeling enchanted. He had not felt this relaxed in years. “You have quite an undertaking started here.”

  Gavril looked behind him as if surprised to see the city behind him. “This place is a flower of faith. When there’s fertile ground, faith buds and grows. I just showed these people the way. They built it; they made it.”

  Sergei was honestly intrigued. He had thought Athesia to be a godless realm. Then, in its very midst, there was a place with so much piety and faith that it rivaled the holy cities in the Safe Territories. Maybe it was just as simple as Gavril claimed.

  “This city is a mirror of people’s needs and fears and questions. This is where they come to find peace and shelter and answers. Through prayer and devotion for their gods and goddesses, they get what they want. They are rewarded for their love.”

  Sergei could never recall when prayer would get him that much peace. If anything, his conviction had eroded over the years, shattering with Vlad’s death. But now, seeing this throng milling with purpose and dedication and belief, he almost doubted himself. “Incredible.”

  Gavril stepped closer, the moustached man and the big boy staying behind. Borya tensed ever so slightly, but it was like a drunk man responding to an annoying gnat, hardly the reaction of a man charged with protecting the king’s life. Onward came the holy man, looking totally unconcerned. Soon, he stood inches from Sergei, his face a wreath of honesty and timeless wisdom.

  “When people cannot find harmony with their leaders”—he tapped Sergei’s chest—“they find it with their gods. Peace in the realms begins with the peace in your soul.”

  Sergei felt oddly insulted and relieved at the same time. Gavril’s clear voice felt like it carried across the crowd, but he was certain no one else had heard those words. “You might have a point, holy man. But I must ask, what is the purpose of your presence here? Does your endeavor jeopardize my reign?” He probably should have phrased the question more elegantly, but he just couldn’t spin the words.

  “I do not challenge your rule, Your Highness,” Gavril said. “On the contrary, I want to ensure you remain the king and that Parus prospers in the years to come.”

  Sergei blinked. “You do?”

  Gavril pointed toward the open field behind the royal procession. “Let us walk. It is too crowded here.” Without waiting for Sergei to follow, the holy man stepped into the field off the road, trampling grass with soft, apologetic steps, as if breaking each stalk hurt him personally.

  Sergei nodded at his bodyguards. A risky decision, but then, there did not seem to be anyone within a mile, not counting the thirty thousand unaffiliated Athesians living in second Keron just behind him.

  He followed Gavril, and soon, they were entirely on their own, surrounded by the chirp of birds and the buzz of insects.

  “Your Highness,” Gavril spoke, “I must make it absolutely clear. I assure you, I have no bad intentions. You must not treat me as some rival or a foe. Everything I am doing is ultimately in your favor. My followers will gladly be your followers.”

  If you tell them so, Sergei mused. The offer sounded genuine, noble, everything he could have hoped for. He had come here to see and assess the enemy presence and strength, to learn more about the holy man raising an army under his nose, to evaluate the charismatic religious leader of the new sect. Well, he had just gotten all that in one fell swoop. Only he wasn’t that naïve to believe this Gavril would just so selflessly help him.

  “You must want something from me?” he asked, almost feeling rude for making a demand from this lovable priestlike character.

  Gavril smiled. “Yes. I must ask you to make peace with the Athesians.”

  Sergei arched a brow. “I have done that. There hasn’t been a conqueror as benevolent as myself.”

  The smile persisted, unbroken, beautiful. “Yes. I must ask you to make peace with all of Athesia. With Empress Amalia.”

  The mention of the girl�
��s name almost spoiled his mood. Almost. His mind started racing, as if freeing its boots from treacle, and he was thinking about Lady Lisa, and how she had proposed similar things, and he started envisioning plots again. There was a slate of them around him, involving the clergy, the defeated empress, her dead brother, even his sister. He was disoriented for a moment, lost.

  “Why?” That was probably the best thing to say.

  “You will find my words very hard to believe, Your Highness, but you must try. You must try for the sake of your nation and your family and all your subjects. Your war against the Athesians is justifiable and understandable. However, it is misplaced.”

  Sergei was quiet, studying the holy man. He wanted to believe his perfectly worded mantra, even though there was rage boiling deep in his soul. There was something about his slow, careful manner that made him weigh his response. He realized this wasn’t just a pleasant chat with a lunatic, or banter between deadly if polite rivals. This wasn’t about who would rule this sorry stretch of a realm, nor about his family vengeance. He could feel something much older, much more primal at hand, even if he could not put his hands around it and describe it.

  “Every human has an interest,” Gavril added. Sergei frowned at the strange choice of words. “Everyone. You have your own goals, and I am certain that Empress Amalia, as well as Under-Patriarch Evgeny, have their own desires and whims and passions just as sincere and serious as your own. But these needs dwarf against a great collective urgency facing the whole of the world.”

  Holy preachers always had a flair for drama, Sergei thought. But the taste on his tongue was not one of mockery. “I find your words troubling.”

  Gavril raised a hand. “Please, Your Highness, I beg you. Do not dismiss them. I am well aware that my speech sounds insane. It is very…well…preposterous. I have spent a lot of time wondering how I might approach you, ask for your audience and petition you with my news, without sounding crazy or hungry for power. I also understand the more I speak, the more you will be inclined to disbelieve me. But I just implore you, listen to me; then decide what you must do.”

  Sergei sighed. “All right. Continue.”

  “There is a war coming. A great war. Against an ancient enemy that has returned to subjugate all of the realms. If the people of this land do not unite, we will lose this war. There will be no more Athesia, Caytor, Eracia, or Parus. The realms will be destroyed.”

  Omens, omens. Sergei was liking this less and less with every passing moment. How could one argue with a person blinded by his religion? It was pointless, even when someone like Gavril spoke their case so eloquently.

  “I must convince you,” Gavril added.

  “That you do,” Sergei said. Under the soft, pleasant layer of thoughts inspired by the holy man’s presence, Sergei was already considering military action against Gavril’s forces. There could be no reasoning with someone convinced of an inevitable, pending doom. The royal troops would have to crush the congregation, utterly and mercilessly. The defeat would have to be complete, even greater than the one inflicted on the Athesians. It pained him to turn his army against religion, but he could not tolerate unpredictable madness. He understood the cost and the risk. He would gift Amalia with time to reinforce her position, making all future battles that much bloodier. Then, he would have to muster his lords again, make Parus weak and exposed for a while. He did not forget the threat the nomads still posed, especially after he had slighted them last year. They might send their troops raiding into the Safe Territories or Sevorod, and he would not be able to stop them. Or the Gowashi might raise their ugly heads once again. And there was no guarantee for any of the small duchies in the south.

  It seemed his legacy would have to be one of blood.

  He was almost ready to turn and walk away. Order his men back to Roalas. That was what he should do. Yes, he wanted to make peace, he wanted to be like Adam, but that did not—

  “Have you ever wondered how your father died?” Gavril said, shattering his thoughts, pinning him cold to the ground.

  “What?” Sergei croaked, his voice brittle, thin all of a sudden. A well of old emotions lurched to the surface, like an empty barrel bobbing in the dock waters.

  “Your Highness, do you recall the death of your father? Do you remember the return of the few survivors?”

  Sergei was beginning to suspect an elaborate trickery. Gavril must have spoken to Evgeny, who had provided him with information about his past so he could use it against him. He had never really considered his people an enemy, but today’s meeting was making him fairly convinced.

  “Please, I beg you. Do you remember how strange all those dead bodies looked? Peaceful? With clean wounds?”

  The stories about legendary Athesian weapons resurfaced, and this time, it wasn’t just an empty barrel. There was a black, oily emotion he could not quite pinpoint, but it smothered him, and narrowed down his vision, and made it pulse red with beating blood.

  Bloated purple bodies, eaten by flies and worms, and with large, clean wounds as if made by fire and lance.

  Stories, nothing more. Empty stories.

  But he did clearly remember glimpsing the bodies of the dead nobles, Vlad the Fifth among them, serene and whole as if sleeping.

  Sergei tensed. He heard a noise to his right. He could see that dangerous, taciturn man reach for his ax. There was a murmur of surprise and displeasure in the crowd, on both sides, the woolly charm suddenly broken.

  “Your Highness, please, take your hand off your sword hilt. Please.” Gavril looked like he might cry.

  Sergei stopped himself. He breathed hard through his nostrils, almost flicking snot, but he reined in his wild, dark feelings, pushed them back. “What are you saying, holy man?”

  Gavril waited until he was certain Sergei would listen to every word. “Your father was killed by a magical weapon. It is called the bloodstaff. That weapon is now in the hands of the White Witch of Naum, the enemy of this land and all its people.” Gavril pointed at the ax wielder. “Ludevit is also blessed with magic. He can sense future danger. He anticipated your desire to unleash violence.”

  Sergei felt like a child being shown some huge, wondrous toy, ten times the size of a large castle, towering, massive beyond comprehension. Play with it, the world teased and goaded. Magic. Magic? That was nonsense. That could not be.

  He remembered the dead bodies. He remembered the strange wounds. He remembered, later, for weeks on end, Vasiliy’s sword champions and engineers using dead pigs to try to inflict that damage, trying to figure out what might have caused those fatal holes. No matter what they tried, nothing would destroy flesh so tidily.

  He had pushed those memories away, their significance. He had focused on his need for revenge. Now that he had Roalas in his hands, now that he ruled this sorry realm, there was fresh room for other thoughts and feelings in his soul. And they were telling him that there could be an incredible truth in this mess.

  No, it could not be. Impossible.

  “I must thank you for your time, Gavril. It has been insightful.”

  The holy man grimaced, looking panicky and defeated. “No, Your Highness, please.”

  Sergei nodded once. “I will consider your proposal. Meanwhile, I expect you and all your men to pay homage to the throne in Sigurd. I do not dispute your faith, but this is my land, and there are two things required from all my subjects: loyalty and taxes.”

  Gavril’s face was almost too painful to look at. “I understand the enormity of my claim, but please, Your Highness, do not disregard my story lightly. What would I gain from this?”

  Sergei shrugged. “Who knows? I will heed your advice. I will muster my troops. And I will give Empress Amalia one last chance to bend knee and accept my rule. Then, we shall all have unity, and if needs be, we will stand together against other enemies. If not, then her defeat will mark the end of Athesia, magical weapons or not.”

  Gavril bit his lower lip, a very childish gesture on that ageless face. �
�I understand. I apologize if my words caused you disquiet.”

  Sergei relaxed a little, but his mind had closed to kind words and reason. He began walking back to his retinue, all of whom were carefully watching him, judging his motions, trying to figure out what might have transpired. Gavril followed, his feet silent on the grass.

  “We are going back,” Sergei announced. “I must thank you for your hospitality,” he told his host. Not a cup of the poorest ale. That spoke much about the man’s intentions. Then again, he could not imagine Gavril indulging his guests with drinks and nibbles. He could sooner imagine Theo being cheerful and funny.

  The spell of tranquility and peace was broken. There were two camps staring at one another with a fair dose of mistrust. He had wasted a day and a half on traveling, and would waste just as much going back to Roalas. To what end? To have his conviction prodded by some crazy man? To have old, filthy memories come back to life, to haunt his dreams?

  He was not quite sure what to really make of Gavril’s words. They rang true and mad at the same time. They felt utterly wrong, and yet he wanted to embrace them. But brave men did not fear difficult choices.

  Made by Adam, he would be like Adam. He would offer his neighbors and enemies peace, but if they scorned it, he would utterly crush them. He invited Genrik into his own coach and found himself dictating the summons for his lords. The Parusite army would assemble and ride north once again. This time, there were be no half defeats and half victories. Amalia would get her one chance. He would grant her that much. But after that, there would be no more silly weakness on behalf of King Sergei. In that moment, he thought about his royal hostage. He was seeing new wisdom in Lisa’s words. She had always urged him to seek peace; he had just seen it coming from a position of weakness. In a strange, morbid way, his very enemy had counseled him on the best course of action he could have. Perhaps because she did understand what war really meant.