The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 16
There was this stranger standing in front of her, but she saw Calemore in his place. Teasing her, making demands, threatening her, asking her questions. How much was she willing to sacrifice? Would she give up her maidenhood?
And then, he broke her spirit.
“What do you say, Your Highness? I could help.”
Beggars don’t get to choose. “Yes,” Amalia mumbled. She had no idea what he could ask. But she would say yes to all of them. Jarman, Xavier, Sergei, Adelbert, all the rest. She would buy herself time and make sure she responded when she finally regained her strength and confidence. Or maybe she never would, doomed to remain a beggar her whole life. That was her price, perhaps, for her mistakes in Roalas.
She thought she should be resentful, but all she felt was sadness. Maybe she deserved the terror and derision. Make peace. That’s all that mattered. Save the realm.
Once, she might have even considered sweet revenge, but even that idea made her weary now. Could she blame the vultures around her for pecking at her soft flesh? Could she blame the animals for sniffing out her fears and chasing her? This Adelbert was no worse than Xavier or Jarman. He just wanted his share. And Amalia, a weak, pitiful thing, should comply so he would not get upset and retaliate. That was the sum of her new life. An empress reduced to a fool.
She thought she should have learned from her mistakes in the capital. Her spring-cleaning should have established her reputation, made her dreaded even. Well, it may have with the common men, but the powerful figures around just kept using her, ignoring her, commanding her about. As if nothing had changed. And maybe nothing had. She was still a silly, frail, naïve girl who knew nothing about politics and survival.
What would Father do in this mess?
“Thank you, Your Highness. That is good enough for me,” he said, shattering her resolve, before she could come up with an answer. “I will be going now. We will meet again.” He stepped into the shadow by her bed, and then, she realized he was gone. The shadow changed hue, and it was no longer a man’s figure there, but old furniture.
Amalia exhaled a long, shuddering breath. Tears came to her eyes. Biting her lower lip in a silent keen of anguish, she sat down on her bed, cursing her cowardice, her inability to fight her enemies, to stand up for herself. She was such a miserable little thing. She did not deserve to be the empress of Athesia. She didn’t deserve anything. She was Jerrica the washerwoman again.
Stop it, a deep inner voice tried to tell her. You’re embarrassing yourself. You’re Adam’s daughter, you saphead.
But the weak side prevailed, and she curled herself into a ball, lying under the pale moonlight and mumbling, cursing her ugly luck. She wished Gerald was there to hug her, to love her and protect her, but she had no one, just the bored whispers of the two smelly roof guards discussing the breasts and arses of the town’s girls.
CHAPTER 15
Mali had the entire Barrin estate to herself, more or less. She was the countess of Barrin. Sort of.
The people who lived at the estate had fled before the strange northern army arrived, leaving behind a frozen moment in life, only partially spoiled by panic, looting, and the passage of time. Most of the property remained strangely intact, apart from valuables and food, which had gone missing. When the Eracian force arrived at the Barrin manor house, her scouts had found several bandits inside, having taken shelter in one of the halls, spitting rabbits over a fire made from broken chairs. The nearby castle, the one she had used for her mock engagements in what felt like a completely different lifetime, also housed a huddle of new inhabitants, of the unsavory kind. They had quickly been rounded up and killed.
Now, it was her new base of operations. Finley, Alan, and she shared the massive premises, trying to figure out what their enemy had in mind. Leaving behind such highly lucrative, highly defensible positions, entirely empty, sounded like madness. Mali thought she could discern a pattern in the enemy’s behavior, but it was a flimsy guess. Apparently, they did not seem that interested in tearing down stone and wood. They only cared about humans, it seemed. And they destroyed only what they considered useless.
The army had more than welcomed the respite. After so many months of grueling, boring marches, they were back in something akin to civilization, with drinkable water in the wells, and real beds. At first, Mali had feared letting the soldiers into the lavish mansion, but she had relented eventually. Lord Karsten would have to find it in his heart to forgive the brave defenders of the realm.
Right now, she was sitting on a crate, whetting a knife, watching life roll by in all shapes and forms. The estate was busy with military work and activity, the two not quite always going hand in hand. There was a bunch of strange northern people being herded back north, escorted by a few mounted men. A new patrol was leaving the camp, armed with crossbows and lances. Like the rest, they were tasked with harrying enemy convoys within a day’s march of the estate. If the enemy surrendered peacefully, they were sent home. If they resisted or fought, they were destroyed. Mali did not relish killing civilians, but the moment they drew their knives, they became soldiers.
Her own knife did not need sharpening, but she liked the sound of the stone scraping against the edge, leaving dull marks in the metal. With every stroke, a new thought bloomed in her head, making her feel all the more frustrated and confused.
She still held the people of the first northern convoy in custody. After the initial fear and wonder, they had calmed and somewhat accepted their fate and had not tried to mutiny or run away. In fact, they had almost naturally merged with the Eracian army and followed without question. Well, if they did have any questions, they asked them in the wrong language.
Mali was not looking at the leaf-shaped blade. Her hand was working smoothly, systematically, muscles tuned to a decades-old instinct. Every veteran soldier could sharpen their tools in total darkness, tie knots or patch torn clothing with needle and thread. It was almost a gift.
Her eyes were focused not that far away on the muscled form of a northerner she called Curly.
The northern fellow was rather stocky, with a great deal of fat over his muscles, but there was no mistaking his strength. His skin was pale and freckled and red from the sun, but it glistened with sweat like it was oiled. Curly had russet-brown hair, although it sometimes shone dark red. He was handsome in a burly, ungainly sort of way, she had to admit.
Curly was one of the few men in the northern convoy, and it turned out he might be a carpenter. At least, he seemed fond of wood and working with timber, because he helped repair wagons and broken wheels, and now, he was cutting fresh logs to assist in the repairs of broken houses around the estate. No matter how gentle the passage of the enemy force might have been, it had still left a great deal of accidental damage behind it. But Mali could tell mere chaos and deliberate ruin apart.
This enemy hoped to come back to Barrin one day, it seemed.
She put the speculations about her superior foe away and focused on Curly’s work. He was sawing through pine, his chest and shoulders bunching, his face locked with concentration. Sweat was dripping from his hooked nose, onto the workman’s bench, leaving big, dark stains. An Eracian craftsman was helping, or rather nodding appreciatively at the man’s effort. Nods and grunts seemed universal among men everywhere.
Curly noticed her and paused for a moment. They locked their gazes, and he grinned shyly, then went back to shaving timber.
Mali stroked the knife against her whetstone. It wasn’t that hot, but she was feeling kind of fluttery. There was a tingle between her legs. There was girlish fascination at work for sure, she thought. After all, this man represented some strange destructive nation that had stumbled bloodily into her world.
There had been no communication with the northerners yet. No one seemed to have figured out their language. Few of the soldiers had tried to crack the mystery of the enemy’s tongue, although Finley’s men had made a hundred lewd suggestions to the captive women.
I might as
well be the ambassador of good faith, Mali thought, rising. She sheathed the weapon behind her belt and stepped toward Curly. He was watching her quite intently. The other woodworker had wandered away some distance, and she had Curly to herself.
“You a carpenter?” she asked.
He paused, frowning, no comprehension in his pale-blue eyes. He smirked weakly.
Mali licked her gums. Then she realized she had not plucked the hair from her upper lip for a few days, and the silly gesture only made her lady’s moustache all the more visible. She tucked her tongue back in behind her teeth, where it belonged.
“So what’s your name?” No answer. She touched her chest, maybe a bit suggestively. “Mali.” She pointed toward his own, all wet and muscled.
“Mali,” he said, his voice pleasantly deep.
“Please don’t be stupid,” she whispered. “Mali.” Her finger touched his breastbone, and she arched a brow.
“Mali,” he repeated, grinning.
She rolled her eyes. “Handsome idiot, it seems.” She shook her head. “No, dolt. Mali. Ma-li.” She looked around. There was no one else she could know by name in her vicinity. Then, she realized she should not just point at her more obvious parts. “Mali.” She stared at her own finger. “Mali.”
His eyes lit. Finally. “Bjaras.”
Curly had just become Bjaras, she thought. Well, the name seemed to fit him. “Why are you here in our realm, Bjaras? What do you want from us?”
His brows touched as he tried to comprehend the foreign language, his face a mask of slightly idiotic confusion. Mali watched him intently, savoring his physique. There was nothing wrong with Gordon, but this man had a sort of wild, foreign charm. Unlike most men from the realms, he was smooth, without any hair on his chest and down his stomach.
“What’s your age, handsome?” she asked, turning away from politics. He could not understand her, of course. So she pointed at herself again, then began counting off, both palms flexing. She reached the last decade, almost extended her fingers, and decided to drop it off.
He smiled. He pointed at his own chest, then did some of his own finger math. She almost grimaced when she realized how young he was. Well, it didn’t matter, did it?
“Hey, you! What are you doing?” Someone bellowed behind her. Gordon. She spun and saw him coming over, striding with that particular long gait men had when they sought trouble. He barreled toward Bjaras and halted too close to his curly head. “What are you doing?”
The northerner tensed. Other things had their universal ring, like violence, it seemed.
“What are you doing?” Mali asked him.
“Is this man threatening you?” Gordon asked, staring at his newfound foe. Bjaras was larger, so the captain had to do quite a bit of posturing to match the sweaty foreigner.
“With me,” Mali snapped. She stepped away from the carpenter and walked back to her crate. Grudgingly, Gordon followed. He made it look as if Mali had just saved Bjaras from a thorough beating. “Explain yourself.”
“That man could be dangerous. He’s got that saw. He could have attacked you.”
“I was in no danger whatsoever,” Mali hissed, her ire rising. “I was actually trying to communicate. Learn about the enemy. The kind of thing leaders do before they make decisions.” Occasionally.
Gordon snorted.
Mali arched a brow. “What is this? Are you being jealous? Are you really?”
Gordon waved his hand dismissively. “That man’s an enemy for all I care. You can’t be having all pleasant talks with him as if nothing happened. Look around. We’re in the middle of a bloody war.”
“I am talking to another man. Does that bother you?”
He snapped his head left and right, a quick, involuntary motion. “You can’t do that.”
Mali took a deep breath. “You’re presuming too much, Captain.” That sobered him. “Captain-whom-I-fuck, captain. However, I do not recall you and I being anything other than an officer and her subordinate.”
He made a pained face. Oh, she had struck deeply, she knew. But she had never allowed men to get soppy with her. That was not how the army business worked.
Then, suddenly, he deflated. “So you mean to tell me our…it…means nothing?”
“That is what we agreed upon, Captain.” There was no room for love in her life now. No room for distractions, silly emotions, favor, or hesitation. The moment her empathy and care for another soldier muddled her resolve, she would have to resign. Ordering men to their death was a lonely chore.
“So you keep telling me,” he rasped, his voice brittle with disappointment.
She did not want to alienate him. After all, he was a valued, trusted, capable officer. She had to be sure in his judgment, in his loyalty. She had to rely on him in battle. Unfortunately, there was no place for youthful romance in that reality.
Some officers liked to keep their distance, or bicker with their staff, so the tensions always hummed high. That was not her style. She liked honesty.
Mali softened her stance. “Gordon, look. We’re both free individuals. We both happen to share something rather intimate, unique, and I appreciate that. I truly do. However, that does not mean you can behave like an unruly, love-blind fool. That does not mean I cannot pursue my other interests if they present themselves. We aren’t husband and wife. We cannot be.”
“Why not?” He really sounded like some infatuated boy.
“Because I’m older than you, I have given up on family, and I will not risk making the wrong decision in combat just so you get special treatment. That won’t work. You won’t get any privileges over all those girls out there. I like you, Gordon, but I cannot be your wife.”
“So nothing is going to change your mind?”
Mali did not want to break his heart. “Let’s get this ugly war finished.”
Gordon made a sour face, stabbing Bjaras with a nasty look. “What about Prince Lovelocks over there?”
She almost laughed, how silly it sounded, all that poison. For a moment, he looked like a giant toddler, commiserating the loss of a favorite toy to his childhood nemesis. “Bjaras, that is his name, gets his share of affection like any other man on this estate. I never promised myself to you, Gordon. That’s how it’s going to be.” He nodded, looking defeated. But she could see a spark of rancor in his eyes. “And he will not be harmed.”
He stood there, face like a slab of stone, probably thinking, or trying to contain his disappointment. But then, he seemed to reach some inner resolve. “I will try harder,” he said. “You will see.”
She rolled her eyes. That was exactly what she did not want to happen. Stupid men to start doting on her. She did not want to behave like some rich whore, playing with her suitors, teasing them, setting them against one another like dogs. For so many years in her military career, she had avoided having men fight over her. Now, in the prime of her age—and probably well past—she had one of her officers declare a love vendetta against a foreigner fifteen years his junior and without a common word between them. Bloody Abyss. Just what she needed.
“I would like to believe you sought me over some important matter?” she said, desperation trying to edge itself into her voice.
Gordon almost grinned, his passion rekindled to a new, maniacal level. Stupid, stupid men, so impulsive, so reckless. “Yes, sir. Meagan’s raiders are back, so I thought to inform you. They ambushed a small party, enemy soldiers this time, proper. On foot. They found them near the Vilswock village, trying to collect onions and turnips from the ground. They scuffled, killed three of them, wounded the fourth and captured him.”
“Any useful information?”
Gordon shook his head. “Not a word of continental, so they killed him.” He shrugged. “But I guess the main body is getting nervous, so they’re sending their troops to investigate. If we keep intercepting their convoys, they might decide to send a large force to try to secure the roads. Or fight us.”
“They just might,” she agreed.
Alan had his soldiers toiling in the fields, behind oxen and mules, driving plows. They were trying to stockpile their thin reserves, because the winter would surely be unpleasant, even without foreign soldiers threatening the realm.
Finley, Alan, and she had dispatched letters everywhere, trying to warn the world leaders against the new enemy. She had signed one sent to Commander Velten, one for whoever ruled Eracia now, one for Adam’s daughter in Roalas, and one for King Sergei besieging the city. She had almost faltered when sending a missive to her son, pretending not to know this Emperor James. He was probably somewhere in Caytor, with his Caytorean wife. She might be bearing his child by now. One message for the High Council, too.
Mali knew she was terribly, terribly uninformed about world events. Ever since going to war against the nomads and then chasing them north, she had lost touch with current affairs. She was basing her knowledge on rumor and hearsay months old, and that bothered her. Ignorance led to the worst decisions.
She hoped to stall the enemy until the messages reached their destinations. Perhaps the nations could put their feuds aside for a while and unite against the common foe. Maybe her son would come riding north, and they would fight side by side.
What a silly thought.
Her thoughts strayed to Adam’s love child. She had not spared this girl Amalia too much attention before, perhaps because it pained her to consider all the implications, like her decision to abandon her military career and hide in Windpoint. To know Adam had forgotten all about her, found himself a new wife, and nourished his little empire with surprising wit and so little force. To know his daughter was challenging the world with her silly ideas and heroics when it was James who should have been the emperor. He was such a gentle, kind, honest man. He deserved to lead nations.