The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (21 page)

The city streets were packed with the poor and homeless. Tension was palpable in the air. Crime was soaring. Amalia saw more criminals hanged every day now than she used to see in a month. Public executions were not her favorite pastime, but they had become a necessary token of authority.

The challenges she faced as the Athesian ruler were colossal. She was almost overwhelmed by the depressing weight of responsibility. Worse yet, she had almost no one to confide in about her fears and doubts. She had to be the absolute bedrock of hope, and she could not put down the mask of perfect control, even for a moment. She was all alone. Even her close aides knew nothing about her despair, her dark emotions and doubts; they deserved better than that.

Only her mother understood her, calm and forgiving and patient. But Lisa had never wanted to rule the nation. She wasn’t born to it. Her place was by her daughter’s side, watching, advising, just like she had done with Adam.

Amalia missed her dad. He had always known what to do. Were he alive now, he would have solved this conflict in the blink of an eye. She sighed.

On the small lacquered tabletop before her, the plain-looking secret book taunted her. She had not yet opened it or read it. Perhaps she should.
The Book of Lost Words
, such an innocent name, she thought. She itched to know what was written inside, but her father’s warnings felt like a coat of needles, prickly, sharp; one small movement and she would bleed from a thousand wounds. Her finger traced the old yet perfectly whole cover.

Her duty was to make sure people had hope. If she broke down, it would all break down. Dad had taught her about human nature. People were social animals, but they needed order and control. They needed leadership. Otherwise, they became senseless, frightened animals, small, cruel, selfish, and dark.

Amalia spent her days coordinating the work of her small council. She toured the city streets, talking to the common man, the baker and the smith and the seamstress. She was polite and firm. And she gave them the hope they so desperately needed. The only problem was, no one gave her hope.

Neither Caytor nor Eracia seemed inclined to shed their blood in a war of honor, but the damage had already been done. The winter was going to be extremely tough. There would not be enough food for everyone, even if this mess somehow magically stopped tomorrow. She would have to order a rationing of supplies.

The sensible thing would be to evacuate women and children back to the countryside, leaving Roalas with its core defense. Lord Benedict reminded her of that every day. The man was almost on the verge of panic. He was trying to do the impossible and failing miserably.

She remembered her own decision to evacuate the city, but she could not bring herself to do that. It would be a surrender. Besides, sending people to small, unprotected villages and towns would be almost as bad as an all-out war. History books spoke volumes of the never-ending strife between Caytor and Eracia. And almost always, it was the small folk who had suffered the devastation, the atrocities, the long days of hunger, the countryside scorched by fires and pillage and wanton destruction. At least cities had standing armies, large curtain walls, siege weapons, and massive stores of food and wood and clothing. They had masses of defenders, they had law, and they had hope.

Roalas would surely bear the brunt of the next war; it was inevitable. The capital city was the symbol of Adam’s empire, the heart of what Athesia was all about. It would be the prime target in the coming conflict, the prize everyone would fight over. And people would die. Keeping them all penned like animals before slaughter was insane. But would her neighbors be so mad as to murder their own people? Athesia had more citizens born in the other two realms than it did natives. Killing Athesians was killing their own kin.

Nothing was certain. No one gave her any answers. Yet, she could not relent. Athesia demanded the respect of its neighbors. For the thousandth time, Amalia wished her father was alive. She would have loved to see how he would handle the national crisis. Would he have sent his armies raiding into the other realms just to prove a point? Would he have been more lenient and forgiving?

Would he have used the bloodstaff?

Did she need to prove her legacy in blood like he had? The magical weapon was her one bitter comfort. She dreaded the notion of having to use it, but use it she would if there were no other choice.

Theodore blamed her for being hardheaded and foolish. He thought her show of power was harmful. Her mother begged her to relent, let the hostages go, make amends with the neighboring realms. Commander Gerald supported her, but he was too loyal for his own good. He had been her father’s man. Luke was a silent mask of obedience and efficiency. Those two would not stand in her way. Release the hostages? She could not. She simply could not. It was the only way her enemies would respect her, fear her, acknowledge her rule. She was not going to be a puppet in anyone’s hands.

She wanted Athesia to become a reality in the history books. If she had not staged her scandalous hostage takeover, the powers in Somar and Eybalen would have worked out a plan to get Athesia wiped out. They may have grown fat on its precarious balance, but they would have given it away for sweet revenge. With time, trade would have ceased. Or they would have bankrupted Athesia with costly demands. She just knew that. They would have given away the convenience of peace and wealth for an ancient smear of scorn.

No one seemed to believe that, though. And the very threat she had hoped to avoid was materializing before her eyes. Athesia was losing its pride and power by the hour.

Her father had tried to prepare her for this critical moment. It was as if he had expected his death to undo the legacy of eighteen years of hard work and sacrifice. And now, there was no going back. Eracia and Caytor had to acknowledge her rule.

So far, her plan was not working out as she had expected. They were stalling, knowing well that time was on their side. They had nothing to lose while they waited, letting her fret. The fake claims for the Athesian throne were a very powerful counteraction. Eracia had yet to come up with its own scheme, but it was obvious they would not back down easily. There was still no official response from the High Council of Trade, but Stephan’s letter could have just gotten lost. Rumors said Monarch Leopold was sending an envoy to sort things out. The Parusites were awfully quiet, but that meant little. Now that her father was dead, they might cast an eye north again.

She really missed her father. He would have known. Then again, they would not have dared challenge him in the first place. Amalia hated herself for being so weak. She was starting to doubt herself. That was the beginning of the end. She could not let it happen, but she was powerless to prevent it. She was lost.

Amalia looked around her room. There were some dresses laid out over a chair, and an empty fruit basket. For a moment, she considered calling Agatha, but the girl was in the kitchens, eating her dinner. Amalia had not eaten; she was just too exhausted.

Besides, she was Adam’s daughter. She could sort her own sleeping chamber, if needed. Not that she was going to. All she wanted was to undress and sleep, let her mind unravel. Hopefully, she would have no nightmares.

The empress walked to her nightstand, cold, bright moonlight streaming through large floor-to-ceiling windows her only companion. Carefully, she laid the bloodstaff against the cabinet. The slender crystal rod felt so fragile, but it was harder than steel. She splashed the lukewarm water in the washbowl with her hands, watching the wilted flowers bob on the rippling surface.

Then, she felt the hackles rise on her nape.

With animal conviction, she realized there was someone else in the room.

She spun around, gasping with alarm, the bloodstaff aimed low, her grip steady.

Seated in one of the many plush chairs, almost unseen in the silver shadows, was an ageless man, dressed in what looked like white leathers, legs crossed, reading a book, apparently comfortable with the low level of lighting. He was not paying any attention to her, although she was convinced he knew exactly what she was doing.

“Lovely book,” he said, his accent flat and strange. “
The Choices
, such an apt name. Very good. Very good. Is that what you’re reading before sleep, Empress? Don’t you have better things to do?”

She was thinking, her mind racing. Should she just fire the bloodstaff and kill the intruder? What did it take to claim another life? Should she call for help? Her security detail was just outside her chamber doors. They would take a few seconds getting in, assessing the situation. Would they be able to handle this stranger?

He did not seem interested in violence, but Amalia knew he was lethal. Every inch of his being radiated ruthlessness. It was sadistic efficiency in absolute form, perfected over many years.

And then, there was exhilaration and curiosity. Her skin itched with excitement. There was a knot of hot, taut power in her belly. She felt dizzy. If the stranger had wanted to kill her, he would have probably done that already.

Or he may be toying with her. He could be a predator, watching his prey squirm. He was watching her, expecting her to take flight, waiting to hunt her down and savage her.

She said nothing. She waited.

“You have something that belongs to me,” he said when he realized she would not speak. He seemed pleased.

“What?” she asked, breaking her silence.

“That thing you’re holding,” he said, pointing. “And a certain book.” He pointed at the table. “I’m glad that you keep them by your side at all times. It seems that you do perceive their importance. Still, they are mine, dear.”

Amalia could hear blood pounding in her ears. The blood-staff was a thing of magic, but no one really knew that. No one understood that it was a weapon. It was a rumor, nothing more. The stranger in her room seemed very familiar with it, though.

“My father gave these to me,” she stated simply.

The man nodded, unfolded his long legs, and rose in one slow, fluid motion. “He may have. He very well may have done that, indeed. But that does not change the fact the item you’re holding is, in fact, mine. Do you know what that it is?”

She nodded. “It’s a weapon I will use to kill you unless you identify yourself and state your intentions.”

He slapped his forehead. “How crude of me. Manners! My name is Calemore. I’m also known as the White Witch of Naum. I have a few other, fairly impressive titles, but I doubt they will mean much to you.”

Amalia was trying to think. His name and title meant nothing. Father had never told her anything about this man. She knew that a certain Lord Erik had given the weapon to her father, but then, the man had vanished, taking away the mystery of his deadly gift with him. Should the man ever return to demand his gifts back, she should hand them over, no questions asked.

“The bloodstaff was given to my father by a man called Lord Erik. You are not him.”

He smiled wickedly. “Am I not? Oh dear. What if I told you Lord Erik is my father, just as…Adam was yours? Then, this entire affair becomes almost idyllic.”

She tightened the grip on the glass rod. Her fingers were inches away from the black marks. “This weapon is mine. Unless you can prove you’re the rightful owner, you will not have it.”

Calemore wagged a finger. “I knew you would say that. I’m not unreasonable. We can probably work something out. Call it a bargain.”

She should fire, obliterate him into a pulp. There was no point to this conversation. But the man’s penetrating gaze stayed her hand. She wanted to hear more. A moment of perfect clarity imbued her. It was such an intimate knowledge of death that she shivered.

“I will trade my toys in return for your maidenhood,” he said.

Amalia froze. “Get lost,” she growled.

The White Witch tsked. “I guessed as much. You simply do not understand how powerful and valuable that thing is. If you really did, you would have given away ten maidenhoods just to keep it. Which makes you unworthy of its power.” He reached forward. “Give it to me.”

“For all I know, you’re just some crazy Eracian spy,” she said and pressed.

Nothing happened. The bloodstaff was cool and quiet.

Calemore laughed. It was only a whisper, but it felt like thunder. She stepped back.

“Not bad. It takes courage to use the bloodstaff. Although you cannot possibly expect to use it against me. I created that lovely thing.” He pursed his lips. “I’m fascinated by human hope. Even against overwhelming odds, humans will stick to their foolish instincts. But you really should not have done that. The bloodstaff is not a weapon of negotiation. It’s a weapon of total dominance. You do not use it as diplomatic leverage; you use it to massacre everyone and everything.”

To her credit, she did not back down. She kept her fingers pressed on the black marks, but she did not panic. She was beyond panic. She was floating on a cloud of white terror.

Dad told me the same thing
, she thought, bile rising in her throat. How could he know?

He beckoned again. “Now, can I have my bloodstaff, please? You’re obviously not quite sure what to do with it, girl. It’s empty.” He pointed. “Unless you want to bargain some more. But the price has gone up now. It will cost you more than your maidenhood. But I’m reasonable.” He licked his lips in a very deliberate manner. “Now, the other question I have is, what would you be willing to do to keep just the book?”

The man’s knowledge was frightening. He may not be Lord Erik, but he did know too much. Part of her considered trying to reason with him, even though she knew she was probably no match to his cunning. But the rest of her would not let go. She could not let go.

“Guards!” she shouted.

The double doors swung open. Three soldiers rushed in, looking around, trying to adjust their eyes to the darkness of the chamber. Calemore did not wait. He leaped like a cat, charging the first man. He turned the sword blade away and punched the man in the face. The burly soldier staggered back, stunned.