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

  She could not gain anything from silence. Every passing day, her influence waned a tiny bit more, the former loyalty of her subjects eroded another grain. All the while, her half brother gained more support, becoming the focus of the Athesian uprising.

  With Amalia alive, her people would have a compelling reason to fight against the Parusites. The rebellion in the north would grow. She could marshal support against him. Only she had vanished completely.

  Sasha thought she was hiding somewhere, biding her time, preparing a counterstrike. If not by force, then through subterfuge and treason. Sasha believed the Athesian loyalists controlled the city in spirit and were waiting for a signal to rise against the invaders. Sergei’s spies reported nothing of the sort, and he only ever saw worried, somewhat frightened, and cautiously optimistic people trying to secure a better future for their children.

  He wanted to put Amalia behind him, forget about her. But his kingly duty did not allow him that. This chapter of his life story would not be over until he saw Adam’s blood eradicated. It just had to be done. The future of Athesia depended on it. There could be no two royal lines.

  Amalia’s uncertain death gnawed at his conscience. Every day that passed without him glimpsing her grave made him feel incomplete and restless.

  His sister had taken a more pragmatic approach to the problem. She was punishing people for abetting a traitor to the Crown. Every day, she ordered another citizen executed. So far, she was killing the Athesian soldiers, those still held in the city jails. But eventually, she would run out of prisoners and have to turn on the baker, the glassblower, the woman who sold dried fruit at the corner of Yellowleaf Street. Sergei would not have cared if not for her blind icy-blue eyes. She might not be able to see, but those eyes followed him every time he rode by.

  Sergei was worried by his sister’s harsh policy. He had promised the people of Roalas that they would not be harmed if they swore fealty to him. Indeed, most had, and in return, he had kept peace and restored refugees to their farms and homes. He made sure the city had law and order. Slowly, he was gaining Roalas’s trust, as much as he could with armed men at every corner and mandatory prayers at dusk and dawn. But it was a small price to pay for hot porridge for the children and a roof above their heads.

  His three months of reign in occupied Athesia had been largely uneventful. Most of the towns had gone back to business, selling overpriced ale and potatoes to tired Eracian and Caytorean merchants. The fields rippled with fresh crops. The winter was not worse than any other.

  He exacted a harsh but fair justice whenever it was needed, tried to avoid segregating the two nationalities, tried to make sure small, petty people did not abuse his rule to settle old scores. As far as invading another country went, Athesia was blessedly calm. You had your usual postwar share of thieves and army deserters coming back as confused villagers, brigands roaming the land, lost children wandering the dusty roads, an occasional Oth Danesh pirate caught and lynched by an angry mob, rebels and renegade soldiers posing as ordinary citizens, spies of all sorts, mercenaries seeking favor and payment for battles they may not have fought, and people with fickle loyalty bending knee to the new king.

  It was nothing compared to how the Red Desert raids had looked in his youth. You couldn’t stop until you impaled every last severed head on a stake and burned the tribe camps to the ground. But these people were not mongrels. They were people of the faith, lost and confused, much like him. They looked the same; they spoke the same language. If he started butchering them, the neighboring realms might decide they preferred Adam’s offspring to him after all.

  He would have to figure out what to do with Sasha’s punishments, but he still had time.

  Sergei approached his sister. She was so tough, so cruel. And the only one suitable for the rule of this land. He had intended to bestow Athesia upon his son. Then, he had deliberated giving it to one of his dukes, but none had deserved it. Their performance in this war had been shameful at best. They had failed him, almost universally. And now, they were gone back to their homes, their one year of duty expired.

  Athesia was now in the hands of the Red Caps and Borei. The women had no homes to return to, and the mercenaries always hoped for more gold.

  Sergei had appointed Captain Speinbate as the princedom governor. It was a meaningless title, but one he had promised the man. One day, Speinbate’s many bastard children would be able to claim some relation to the Parusite nobility, by grace if not blood.

  More importantly, Speinbate was in charge of keeping peace in the countryside. With his army much reduced by the departure of most of his retainers and their regiments, he could not afford to send regular troops into the rural areas and take care of every little detail. However, the Borei were perfect for that task. Nothing invoked debilitating fear among brigands as the sight of an olifaunt trampling down a dusty lane, screeching. The mercenaries were also crafty buggers when it came to peddling and money, and they made sure no tax was evaded. Their wild, eccentric appearance caused the braver or more desperate citizens to quickly reconsider their little vices.

  There was a price, though. Responsibility.

  Captain Speinbate was responsible for the king’s peace. His own life depended on it.

  Sergei was amazed by how disciplined the Borei could be when properly motivated.

  Inside the city, he had disbanded the surviving City Guard and then rebuilt a new City Watch from those who would lay down their weapons and forswear their loyalty to Empress Amalia. Those who had refused now rotted in jails, awaiting execution.

  Sergei had hoped to meet the famous Commander Gerald, but that was another hope dashed to pieces. The captain of Roalas had died defending the palace. Another satisfaction denied him.

  Gerald’s deputies had surrendered and now patrolled the city streets alongside the Red Caps, demoted, humbled, but still very much alive, and constantly watched for any treachery. Most of the officers had done the same thing, and deep down, it worried him, but he would not break his word.

  His initial plan to kill the entire army echelon had worn off after he had seen his son’s body wrapped in blood-soaked sheets. For some reason, he had lost the zeal, lost the hunger for humiliation. Most men found the deaths of their children to invoke murderous rage in their hearts. Sergei had merely felt humbled, saddened, empty.

  Killing people for defending their homes would have been a sign of weakness. Not their fault. He understood that perfectly well now. Just as he could not lay blame for Vlad’s death on anyone else. It would be his nightmare forever. The best he could do was stay true to his ideals.

  He wished to have met Commander Gerald and heard the truth from him, the facet of the siege that he had not seen. He wondered what kind of hard decisions and compromises the man had taken to protect Roalas for so long, against overwhelming odds. But that was something he would never know.

  His one consolation was the empress-mother.

  He had Amalia’s mother in custody.

  But he would be a liar if he said he felt good about it.

  The woman was hard and cold, but he would not expect any less from a woman who had chosen to marry that butcher. Sasha had pressed for her death in a splendid public execution. Sergei had refused. He needed her. He needed her to remind him why he had come here. He needed Adam’s legacy to justify his own.

  Sergei tried to reach a hand toward his sister’s shoulder, but she spoke suddenly, and he lowered it.

  “You should go back to Sigurd. Your wife and children are waiting for you.”

  The king smiled sadly. He missed his family. His lust for revenge blunted, he recalled all the other emotions he had put aside for so long. Yes, he should leave Athesia to his sister and retreat. She had a formidable force, arrayed to the west and north, cleaning the last pockets of resistance. Roalas was quiet, stable. She did not need him anymore, nor his royal decree. The princedom of Athesia belonged to Sasha.

  So why did he stay here still? Why?

 
James, that was why, he told himself. Emperor James.

  If he retreated just now, his son’s death would be meaningless. And it had to mean something.

  “The executions must stop,” he said softly.

  “When Amalia is delivered to me,” she stated.

  Sergei sighed. Pointless. But he had decided not to interfere. Not yet. He would let her do as she intended. He trusted her judgment and intelligence. It was another trial.

  Most men would see a crazy, cruel woman who lived a sinful life, against the godly ways, but he saw a girl, his age, bracing for their father’s beating with pressed lips and her cheeks dry, while his own face had flooded with tears.

  He wanted to discuss the politics of the realm with her, talk to her about future relations with Eracia and Caytor. He still did not know what to think of Monarch Leopold’s mad decision to let the nomads into Somar. Eracia was in chaos now. He had Amalia’s hostages as his guests now, as they really did not have anywhere else to go, but he never failed to notice how very similar their position was to that of Emperor James. He may have started out as political bait, but he was now a threat to everyone.

  Sergei wanted Sasha to give more priority to the rebuilding of monasteries and temples. He wanted her to prioritize industry and commerce. She also had to take the clergy into consideration and offer them a role in Athesia. So far, they had been left waiting, and their patience would run out sometime soon. He did not want to be on the wrong side of faith when that happened. The Safe Territories were also a concern. Most of the land was run by Parusites, but he wondered if they might not side with the patriarchs rather than him if they were forced to choose. And now, with Eracia in tatters, the stain of lawless despair was spilling into the Territories.

  Sergei wished the princess would give more heed to the hurt pride of the High Council. He hoped she would elect to see the bigger picture of this conquest. Sergei’s role was that of Adam. He had driven a wedge between Eracia and Caytor, and now it was up to him to choose what he would make of them. Hateful partners or bitter enemies.

  He already knew what he must do. Become like Adam.

  He wanted so many things. But his words faltered. “I’ll see you later, Sister,” he said and left.

  His feet took him around the palace, almost without volition of his own. He found himself in the Garden of Joy. Lady Lisa was there, kneeling by a flower bed. Her female escort watched dumbly, bored.

  The king waved his hand, and the two bodyguards stayed back. He crunched forward. She lifted her head. Her eyes narrowed down, and her steel mask came on.

  “Your Highness,” she greeted formally, her tone icy.

  Sergei snapped his fingers. The Red Cap soldier retreated into a small decorative tree, crushing tiny branches. “Lady Lisa, I hope you are well today.”

  “As well as I can be,” she said. “I have told you many times before, you need not assign a guard to follow me everywhere. I have promised not to escape. You have my word.”

  Sergei nodded. “I am not worried about your word, lady. But some people might choose to ignore it. Unfriendly factions might decide you are better off in their hands. Or even dead. It would not serve any purpose. Besides, the decision is my sister’s. She wants you protected.”

  Lady Lisa clasped her hands in front of her; they were grimy with rich black loam. “I see. So you choose to hide behind your sister’s decisions? You are the king, but you let the princess take care of everything, and when it suits you, you take responsibility or deny it, Your Highness?”

  Oh, it hurt. But he realized the woman was right. He was afraid of making another terrible, regrettable choice. He was not sure he could handle it. “It’s hardly that,” he heard himself say.

  “My daughter made a similar error,” Lisa said without emotion. “She was the empress, but she let her commander make every decision. Then, she would dispute them or support them. Either you trust your close friends totally or you take charge yourself. My husband did not trust anyone. He won. My daughter did. She lost.”

  King Sergei felt a sudden wave of compassion wash over him. He pushed it away. “What are you telling me, my lady?”

  Lady Lisa stepped over a bed of violets, one slippered foot mucky. “Either you let your bloodthirsty sister have her way or you rule Athesia. Please do not turn this into another war. The people of this land have suffered enough.”

  “And what about you?”

  She spread her arms. “I’ve made my peace a long time ago. I understand the price and pain of sacrifice. Do not mistake me for a heartless woman. I mourn my daughter’s disappearance and probable death. You should do the same. Let Vlad rest.”

  Sergei swallowed. His fingers twitched. “So what am I doing in this city?”

  She approached him and laid her own hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps you’re after revenge. That’s what men do. Or perhaps you can churn the thousands of deaths you’ve caused into something meaningful.” Her stare was piercing. “Do you know why I do not flee or fight you, Your Highness? It’s because I have a mission. I want to see Athesia flourish. It was my husband’s dream, a free land for all people. Ideas do not die when a body is laid to rest. You came here thinking death would make you whole. But it didn’t. It’s something else. Think about it.”

  Sergei was thinking about it. But the answer eluded him. All he could see now was his regret fighting with his pain. Let it all slide? Forget Vlad’s death? He could not. He just could not.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he said. His chest hurt, but it was good pain. He needed it.

  “Some people take after their fathers. Some take after their mothers. Think about it.”

  He did not want to think about his mother right now. He did not want to think at all. He was not sure why he had come here.

  “Thank you,” he murmured and left. His future had never seemed more blurred and painful than today.

  CHAPTER 6

  A year spent among the Borei had taught Bart something: nobility was obsolete. People mistook wealth for dignity, class for sophistication, style for intelligence. Looking at his peers, the proud members of the uncertain Privy Council, Bart saw nothing but foolishness.

  The Borei might be crude and way uglier than the average Eracian, he thought, and it was so easy to dismiss them as foreign primitives. He almost had. But his new acquaintance had taught him a different truth. A humbler kind of truth.

  Count Bart still marveled at the sheer luck his comrades had. They had escaped death, every one of them. The yearlong siege, the attacks on the city, the sack, they had fleeted through unscathed. Bored and grown fat, and with Caytorean friends, but without any scars or injuries or traumas. A yearlong stay at another palace. Not a great change from Somar or their own estates.

  Their experience had not made them better people. They were still as arrogant, as vain as they had been the day Monarch Leopold had sent them to gloat over Adam’s dead body. Dignitaries to a parade of shame. Only they had ignored the lesson.

  Staying with the mercenaries, Bart had learned about having fun for the sake of it, without protocol and tradition weighing down on him, without any fear of embarrassment or political implications. At first, he had been frightened, then overwhelmed by the liberating simplicity of it. You could still be a monarch’s envoy, even if you talked to people who did not hail from ancient families of lords. Birthright didn’t make you better or smarter. On the contrary, it suffocated you, made you stiff and blind.

  His spiritual rebirth did not lessen his anger. After a year as the monarch’s envoy, he was no longer in charge. Power, well, that was another matter.

  He had come to Athesia on a mission. He had not failed. His mission had simply become irrelevant. He had arrived with the intention of keeping peace between Eracia and Athesia. Both realms no longer existed as they were. Athesia was a princedom now, ruled by the Parusites. Eracia was burning, a land without a ruler, and with a horde of hungry contenders.

  Bart wished the hostage situation had ended somewhat
differently.

  King Sergei had decided he wanted peace with his neighbors, so he had released them all without any preconditions. Bart had been surprised as much as the dignitaries, who had expected to remain locked in Roalas for a very long time, used for ransom and negotiations. Instead, they had been freed. The Caytoreans had gone to their cities and families, armed with fresh knowledge of their rivals. The full extent of the damage would not become apparent for many years, he knew. The Eracians, well, they had stayed because they had nowhere to go.

  Throughout the siege, Bart had been in charge. He had never enjoyed power for the sake of it, never cared for his title, never cared for gaining more favor with the monarch, not like his wife did. But he had grown used to his status, to his responsibility. Not quite liked it, but accepted it as his burden as a man who held the fate of the realms in his hands.

  Now, his role was gone, and he was outranked by his comrades. He had become the lowliest member of the Privy Council once again.

  It would have mattered less if he thought his friends knew what to do. Watching them race horses for the sake of it, however, shattered any slightest hope of that ever happening. Eracia was being raped by the nomads; the Privy Council spent their time betting who would win the next sprint.

  Yes, he wished the hostages had not been so lucky.

  It was amazing how the landscape had changed in the past three months. The devastated fields around Roalas were slowly recovering. You could still see dark dapples of empty ground where tents and siege machines had lain. Around the city’s perimeter, there was an ashen circle of barren earth. The Inferno fires had fused the ground to a glass-like sheet, and it would not let the rain or the sun crack it. Maybe the next winter snows would break the black crust and heal the soil.

  A beached rib cage of a scuttled ship rested by the riverbank, crowded with birds. Fishermen paddled their small barges round the curve of the city. A lone cargo ship was slugging through the silty water, edging toward the mucky bank where a hundred people with nets full of crabs were waiting with their catch. Women mostly, with skirts hiked up, bare legs sleeved in mud almost like boots. Children were playing hide-and-seek around old, discarded picket lines and catapult leftovers.