The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Read online

  Her half brother was a bastard, but he was a clever one.

  Amalia suspected it was his wife’s doing.

  Empress Rheanna, she was called, a banker from Eybalen. She was older than him, probably as much as ten years. Most people would find her ravishing, mature, and beautiful, but Amalia thought she had too many wrinkles on her face, and her rump was too wide, although she would have loved to have those breasts. Still, she could do nothing but admire her calm and easy manner, the way she handled the crowd of men around her. It was almost magical.

  James was a boisterous, cocky bastard, but with Rheanna by his side, smiling, whispering, touching him gently with just the tips of her fingers, he transmuted into a statesman, noble and serene and calculated. She could practically see him growing wisdom, almost like a choke vine creeping up a wall. Amalia wished she had Rheanna’s skills. She might not have lost the war that way.

  And in a simple act of marriage, he had wedded the richest and most powerful of Caytor to him, what she had tried to achieve by intimidation. She had grown her whole life by her father’s side, learning his wisdom, and yet this stranger, who had never met him, was faring so much better than her, putting to practice the magic of Dad’s charisma and unpredictable wit.

  Amalia stuck her hand into the bowl and realized all the fruit was gone. Agatha smiled softly. Now what? Amalia thought. It was a relatively dull, quiet day. With the army dug in and the sky clear of rain clouds, the need for repairs and cleaning had dropped somewhat, leaving more time for idle gossip. Most women used the opportunity to mingle with the soldiers, just like her maid, but Amalia did not like the lack of activity. Bored men tended to cause trouble, and she preferred having her hands busy. It kept her from thinking too much about her failure.

  Suddenly, she could not stand the little tent. She rose quickly and exited, squinting as the bright daylight assailed her. Very little time had passed, but her half brother was already busy charming someone else.

  Delegations came and went all the time. The entire land of Caytor had something to share with Emperor James. Amalia wished she could hear the discussions and negotiations and partake in the politics, as well as learn where she might have erred and why the High Council loved this man so much. But they just slithered into the estate, taking their secrets with them.

  Men came in small and large processions, mostly traveling by carriage, with knots of soldiers riding in front and back for protection. These councillors and investors made sure to distinguish themselves from the rest of the crowd, so they proudly displayed banners and coats of arms. Lone horsemen sometimes arrived, grubby with road dirt, but these mostly rode into the army camp. Any time of day, you could glimpse a pigeon taking off from the estate, carrying an important message somewhere.

  James was talking to some Athesian officer, nodding at the man’s words. At his side stood some Caytorean swell and an evil-looking man in the uniform of a legion commander. Well, the bastard was at least trying to emulate Athesian military style. It made for a less awkward separation between her own troops and the private soldiers of Caytorean birth.

  She called the Fourth Legion the Loyalists. They had abandoned her, but then, Commander Nicholas presumed her dead. Amalia was glad he wasn’t around today. He was one of the few senior officers who could easily recognize her, having met her face-to-face on quite a few occasions. Common soldiers and small folk had seen the empress often enough, but never talked to her at arm’s length. Furthermore, most people saw what they wanted to see; Amalia was dead, and her short hair didn’t belong on an imperial head.

  She ran a hand through her boyish cut, wondering if she should shorten it again. Her fingers touched the scar above her clipped right ear. Some imperial decoration right there. She was safe from most people, but she could not let even the tiniest chance ruin her disguise. Nicholas might just get inspired and see her ghost in the camp, and then, she would face a much bigger problem than filthy laundry and rude whistles.

  Her half brother laughed heartily, throwing his head back. The legion commander at his side was frowning, wondering what might be so funny. The Caytorean lord was smoking a cigarette and sniggering. What a happy bunch.

  A soldier walked into her vision. He was looking at her, his expression soft and hopeful. She ignored him. Agatha was watching her from the side, her lips pursed in concern. Amalia pretended not to notice.

  “I will bring us some food,” Agatha said.

  In the camp, individual cook fires were not allowed, in order to conserve fuel and supplies and reduce the risk of fire. You could get a hot meal at one of the communal kitchens. It meant lots of jostling and elbowing, and smelly people pressed together. Amalia hated the commotion, always felt exposed with so many unfamiliar faces around. Her people, her citizens. She may have waved at them during one of her processions, maybe even handed out loaves of bread to some. She really didn’t know. Then, there was the rank fear of being discovered, tiny but ever present, like a blister.

  For all his proclaimed love for Athesia, James sure did not hurry leaving Pain Daye. She had no idea what he planned, but for now, the army was lodging outside the gates, and getting fatter, as it mended its wounds and patched torn clothes and dented armor and let trickles of fresh recruits and mercenaries beef up its numbers. The false emperor, the pretender, the usurper, her half brother and bastard commanded an entire Athesian legion, plus tens of thousands of men from local garrisons. Amalia was well aware of the two factions serving under his banner, mistrustful friends bound by a common cause. Not unlike the situation Father had faced back in his day.

  The Athesian soldiers wanted revenge and often clamored for a quick march back to Roalas. Even she knew this was a foolish sentiment. Even with the entire regiment at his disposal committed to battle, James did not have enough troops to fight King Sergei. Not yet, anyway.

  The men grumbled that he was slow, but instead of ignoring their protest, he mingled and shook hands and asked them to trust him. He made his promises with simple words, reassuringly. Not a man raised in court, he knew how to speak to the common man.

  Perhaps that was her problem, that she could not?

  What did he plan on doing with the refugees? What would he decide? She burned to know. And she dreaded another march, another exhausting journey into uncertainty. What if his fat-arsed wife decided he should take care of Caytor’s interests first? What if he decided to send the refugees back home without escort, give them back to Sergei, and leave them at his mercy? What if the Athesians and Caytoreans broke their uneasy pact and suddenly turned against one another? How would that end?

  All she knew, she would be a helpless bystander, and the best she could expect was to escape any conflict unscathed, unnoticed. She could not rely on Pete’s protection forever. What would happen if he marched to war and took Agatha with him? What if he chose to leave her behind? What then? Keep laundering all her life and hope not to get raped?

  Amalia felt her lower lip quiver, and she bit it hard. Her chest wanted to heave, but she would not let it, turning her sigh into a long, slow hiss. No, she would be strong. She was Adam’s daughter, not some porcelain doll. She would survive this mess. But first, she would sort her mind out and forge a plan. Unlike the last time, it would not be a silly, emotional fiasco. She had to be hard and cold and brutal.

  James moved on, his lapdogs trailing after him. The camp turned quiet and boring again. Amalia looked around her. No one noticed her; no one cared about her. She was a nameless servant, a small human with small tasks that helped this monstrosity live and breathe. For now, that was all she was.

  Amalia knew she could not be Jerrica the washerwoman forever. She had to change things. She had to fend for herself. She could not allow Agatha and Pete to defend her. She had to become the mistress of her fate.

  She wished she had Gerald by her side. But she knew nothing of his fate. Did he live? Had he died in the attack? Had he been taken hostage by the Parusite king? Or killed? Maybe he was leading a rebellion?
Maybe he was hiding somewhere? She could not imagine him hiding like a coward, like she did. But she had no news of her…commander, and she knew she must be strong on her own.

  As Amalia mustered her thin bravado, sane thoughts echoed in the back of her mind. She was no good with a knife. She was weak. She could never protect herself. She must not disdain the crumbs of mercy and good fortune she had. At least she ate every day, and no one groped her; no one molested her; no one beat her. She did not have to fight anyone, risk herself surviving every day. She should be content and glad for her luck.

  After a brief fight, cowardice won. Once again. She wasn’t ready yet. Her mind swam with poison, unable to form coherent, clear ideas. She was too distracted, too bitter. She still had no plan. For now, all she could do was ogle her half brother and reflect upon her own mistakes and choices.

  One day, she might be strong enough to change things. One day, she might boldly declare herself the rightful empress of the realm, and all her subjects would bow to her. One day, she might bring this arrogant bastard down. One day, she might lead her nation back to Athesia and win the war against the Parusites, just as Father did.

  But that was just a dream. One day. Not today.

  Today, she was a washerwoman, one with a scarred face. Alone, unprotected.

  Well, at least she had eaten some fresh strawberries. You had to indulge in small perks like that when you were a frightened, helpless refugee.

  CHAPTER 4

  James headed back into the mansion. He walked into a lavish green-and-purple garden where a host of keepers were busy landscaping, trimming errant bushes, collecting fallen leaves off the grass, settling back wayward pebbles onto the twisting path.

  Behind him, Rob walked, wearing a striped shirt, busy smoking. James himself was wearing a long, elegant silk tunic, which reached down to his thighs and felt like some sort of a manly skirt. But Rheanna reassured him this was the latest rave in Eybalen and that he looked a modern, stylish gentleman. Warlord Xavier trailed by, stopping to sniff flowers now and then.

  They entered the mansion and climbed to the second floor, then marched into the southern wing, toward the war room. It was a serious affair, befitting his new status as an emperor bent on conquest. A whole lot of people waited for him there: Timothy, brushing a small green apple against his vest; Master Hector, glowering at the bunch of Athesian officers; Commander Nicholas, arguing excitedly over something on the map table with one of his subordinates.

  James halted, closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed. He let his benevolent self dissipate and summoned his more somber leader figure. This chamber was not about showing how kind and friendly he was; it was about making his small, budding army into a proper killing machine.

  “Gentlemen,” he offered formally. They saluted back in a ragged ripple.

  He cast a quick glance at Xavier. His urge for killing the man was wearing off. The warlord deserved to die, and his use was growing less daily now that James’s force had transformed from a herd of private bands into a uniform fighting body. Still, he stayed his hand and never ordered the man disposed of. He knew he should get rid of him; that was what you did with your butchers once they completed their grim task. But he just kept putting it off.

  “Your Highness,” Commander Nicholas greeted eagerly.

  James walked over and took a seat at the center of the table, where he could see everyone without craning his neck left and right. The table was oval shaped and had the map of the realms carved into its top, lacquered in different colors to mark rivers, forests, and hills. The borders were more sensibly marked in chalk, and lead figurines denoted armies.

  “Any news?” he asked.

  “One bird from Shurbalen,” Malik, an adjutant spoke. “Councillor Vareck promised three thousand men next month.”

  James nodded and redid the calculations in his head, like he always did. His army had enough troops to form four full legions, plus some auxiliaries and mansion defense. He had divided and spread the old Athesian Fourth into two units, in order to mix them with Caytoreans, hoping to create some unity. The relations between his father’s people and his wife’s countrymen were still somewhat tense. There was too much mistrust there.

  James had the honor of leading the First, much like his father had. Xavier commanded the Second, formed from the Wolves, Lynxes, and other smaller companies. His rank as the warlord meant only James bested him in authority. The Third belonged to Master Hector, the only sergeant to outrank majors and captains. No one seemed to object. Animal mascots and names were gone now.

  James wondered about the subtle differences in the army structure among the realms, how Emperor Adam had decided to promote division colonels into full commanders, and call the divisions legions, a new name, a new nation. And then, granted himself the title of a general—nothing, contrary to expectations, fancy or meaningful. A simple statement of his strength. James wanted to do the same thing, to somehow put the imperial burden away when he donned armor. But he did not dare yet. Not until he’d won Athesia back. For now, he allowed Xavier to be the hallowed champion of the Athesian army in exile, the one to take the blame if needed. Besides, it kept the man busy.

  He leaned forward in his chair. Four legions, with the fifth forming. He wondered what to do with the refugee volunteers and the mercenaries. Did they deserve their own legion?

  “What about the front to the west?” James asked his next question.

  Malik glanced briefly at a paper in front of him. “We know there’s an armed uprising in the north of Athesia. Some of the locals, plus some troops that fled Roalas. Formed a free regiment, fighting for the realm. They don’t even know about Amalia—or care. Or about you, sir.”

  James felt his face scrunch into a grimace. His half sister, Amalia, an unfinished affair. She was dead, or most likely dead. He didn’t feel any sadness; there was just deep curiosity in his heart. He wanted to have known her, even as an enemy. He wondered which of the rumors were really true. Had she tried to assassinate him? Befriend him? Had she even spared him a second thought? Would they have gotten along? Cooperated?

  “And there’s a conflicting report,” Malik plowed on, “of a renegade army, formed of criminals and defectors, terrorizing the land. Sort of like the Oth Danesh over here, sir. And they fight for whoever pays them, it seems. Take money, pillage, sometimes just take the money and run. They got financing from Eracia, and even one Caytorean lord, it seems. To his credit, King Sergei wants them crushed.”

  No news, then, James thought. He had heard bits and pieces of these same reports many times before, always with a slightly different tune. Almost like the snakes and bubble shapes you saw when you closed your eyes but then left a tiny, tiny slit, and then you saw things floating in the web of your eyelashes. He hated uncertainty. He hated chaos.

  The Parusite ruler was busy pacifying his new duchy, it seemed. And while most people would assume pacifying meant staking people to trees, this king was being quiet and merciful about his methods. He didn’t seem bent on punishing the common folk for rallying under someone else’s banner. He needed them to till his fields and pay taxes. Very thoughtful, James thought. Even the city refugees were considering moving back, now that they knew they would not be beheaded for fleeing Roalas in the heat of the battle. The only thing he could promise them was to be a better emperor than Sergei was a king, because if he lost the Athesian people to this invader, his entire campaign would crumble.

  He was no longer worried about Caytorean lords and ladies trying to kill him.

  He worried about his own people giving up on him and favoring some foreign king.

  His father had never faced the threat of being scorned and rejected.

  James rubbed his chin, thinking. It was summer, a good season to march and fight. But he didn’t have enough forces to go against Roalas, so he had to weigh other options. And while he felt quite comfortable in Pain Daye, he never forgot his stay was temporary here. He was still a friendly intruder on Caytorean land.
His wife could charm the High Council only so much before they lost faith in him. His string of victories against the Oth Danesh had bought him a sailcloth full of breathing space, but it would eventually run out. And then, they would expect him to proceed with his mission, the one they had been sponsoring for the past year: recapturing Athesia and making good on his promise of eternal alliance.

  Once he did capture Roalas, what would he do then? Live there? Take Rheanna with him? Would she abandon Eybalen, all her businesses, for his sake? Or delegate it to someone else? Her loyalty was spotless, and she had not left Pain Daye since meeting him, but still, he was slightly worried. Strange, how he could not quite decipher her thoughts. His wife was still a mystery to him. It excited him, but also scared him.

  For a moment, he wished he had Nigella to tell him future truths, but he had banished that woman. And for the better. He could not allow her to bewitch him again and demand his seed. He would not have other women anymore. Just Rheanna.

  James rose, walked around the table, and picked up one of the reports. He read it absent-mindedly, as if seeking for clues that would help him decide what to do next. He heard the door click open, but kept his eyes pasted on the thin document. Then, he heard fabric rustle. A soft, cold hand slipped round his waist. He jumped, hairs on his neck standing.

  “You are frisky today!” Rheanna said and leaned over, kissing his ear.

  He savored her smell for a moment, then remembered himself. “What are you doing here?”

  Rheanna smiled patiently. “Just had a word with Councillor Sebastian. He’s secured a deal on steel manufacturing, with favorable return. Most of it will be going to Monard, to help rebuild the damage caused by the pirates.”

  James nodded. Still, he felt peevish. He didn’t like when she discussed business in front of his officers. “That’s good, I guess.”

  “What have you decided?” she asked, looking at the map as if it were some strange, wondrous object.