The Betrayed (51 page)

Any time now, any time now…
she thought.

Rumors about the crushing defeat had been reaching Sigurd for weeks now. Messengers had come, bringing tragic news of the demise of the entire Parusite army. The king was dead.

The king was dead.

Now, a procession was approaching the city, a column of soldiers bearing their fallen king on a pair of stretchers, draped in the colors of the realm. His death was now a finality.

Formal mourning had been forestalled until the king’s body was found and brought in. No one truly believed their ruler was dead, despite the overwhelming firsthand reports from the few survivors. But protocol called for a body. Left with no choice, Olga had been forced to suppress her joy, keeping her face stern and wrinkled with worry. It galled her to no end, but she had to play the role of the dutiful wife. For days, the city was a cauldron of tension.

Vasiliy entered the royal chambers, ushered by one of her maids. He dismissed the girl and closed the door firmly after her, sliding the lock in place.

Olga twirled around. Her black mourning dress was resplendent, showing her figure. The rare moment in the life of a Parusite wife when she could afford to provoke and defy the rigid rule of men was her mourning, a sad moment to be yearned for and cherished. A moment of freedom and deliverance.

She could hardly breathe. Her stomach fluttered. “Is it done?”

Archduke Vasiliy smiled handsomely. “It is done.”

She rushed to him and hugged him fiercely, kissing his jaw. He gently pushed her away. “Not yet, my love. Not yet, we must be patient. You are a sad widow.”

“And you are a sad widower, too,” she said.

Vasiliy nodded. He had ridden to his estate last night to murder his barren wife, Nadia. The news of the tragedy would reach him in a few days, as he assumed the role of regent until Sergei reached the age to be crowned. He would feign shock and innocence, just like she had. He would be devastated.

They would claim Nadia killed herself, unable to cope with the fact she could not bear children. It was a great shame in Parus to be barren. No one would think twice about the poor woman taking the easy way out of her misery.

Vasiliy guided the queen onto the balcony. He looked at the gardens, just like she did.

“We shall wait a few months before we marry,” she said, already dreaming of the days ahead.

“Yes,” he said simply, craning over the balustrade.

She spun again, like a little girl. “I have something to tell you.”

Vasiliy leaned against her. “What is it?”

“Sasha and Sergei are yours,” she whispered. The archduke lifted his head and stared at her for a very long time.

“I know,” he said eventually.

Olga’s question remained unspoken as he suddenly pushed her over the balustrade.

The look of heart-piercing surprise on her face would haunt him forever, he knew. She plummeted wordlessly, cracking her skull on the hard marble below. There were no gardeners present. No one would miss the queen for a few moments.

He went back into the room. A hooded figure waited for him by the bed.

He approached, removed the hood, and kissed his wife, his dear wife. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you, my king,” she said. “You must go now,” he whispered.

Nadia handed him something. She reached for the lever and cracked open the secret passage. She smiled at him and vanished into the dark.

Vasiliy waited for a few moments before he crushed the onion in his hands and rubbed it below his eyes. Tears welled.

He had always known Sasha and Sergei were his children. He had lived with the regret for eleven cold, hard years seeing his twins being molested by the demented figure who called himself their father.

But now, finally, all the evils would be undone.

The Parusite army was gone. The only fighting force left in the realm were his ducal troops. There would be no one to dispute his claim to the throne, no one to oppose his act of mercy of adopting the orphaned royal twins.

He threw the onion into the fireplace, unlocked the door to the chambers, and then shouted. The startled maids who rushed in found a devastated duke on his knees, weeping like a child.

Ayrton stood at the bow of the small boat, watching the Territories recede behind him.

It was over. His life in the realms was over.

The crew of the small trading boat had taken them on without too many questions, caring only for the gold they were given. They had seen so many people do the same thing in the last few months.

The few wise souls in the Territories had abandoned their hope of salvation, by either the Eracians or the Outsiders, and had fled from the enemy as far as they could. Some of them had wandered into the neighboring realms. Others had paid for voyage aboard nomad xebecs, heading for the strange lands that lay beyond Lia Lake.

A new world. A new beginning. Sometimes, it was the simplest choice.

Ayrton had sworn he would never come back to the madness of the realms, never again be a man of violence and death. For the first time, he had something better in his life, something worth dying for rather than killing for.

Elia joined him. She was cold, like she always was in the alien, wintry world. Her body snuggled against his. “Do you know where we are going?”

He hugged her, kissed her brow. “The sailors say the place is called Batha’n.”

“What are we going to do there?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought about apprenticing to an armorer.”

“I could work too,” she offered.

Ayrton frowned. “Really? What kind of work?”

Elia smiled. “Poetry. Or songs. I could write those again. Maybe…”

Ayrton felt his eyes moisten. “But you have not done so in… ages,” he whispered.

She wiped away his tears. “I feel inspiration coming back to me.”

Ayrton closed his eyes. He was at peace.

He was happy again.

“Why are you crying, Grandpa?” Rob asked.

Lord Erik was on his knees, wailing at the sky.

The boy approached the old man and hugged him. “Don’t cry, Grandpa. Please don’t cry.”

Lord Erik lowered his eyes, staring at the child as if he’d never seen him before. “She’s not dead.”

Rob touched his grandfather’s face. “Who?”

“Elia, she’s not dead.”

“The goddess from the book?” the boy asked.

Lord Erik buried his face in his arms, sobbing.

Elia…she lives.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Igor Ljubuncic is a physicist by vocation and a Linux geek by profession. He is the founder and operator of the website
www.dedoimedo.com
, where you can learn a lot about a lot. Before dabbling in operating systems, Igor worked in the medical hitech industry as a scientist. However, what he likes to do most is to write. Passionate about the fantasy genre, he has been writing since the age of ten. You can learn more about Igor’s writing on his book series’ website,
www.thelostwordsbooks.com
.