The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (27 page)

The corridors were still littered with rubble. Servants were busy collecting pieces of brain and muscle from dark corners, wiping blood smudges from tapestries and paintings and wood panelings, scraping pulp off the furniture. They used awls to free bits of gore between floor tiles and had dogs sniffing out scattered remains of the dead palace guards.

An entire section had been cordoned, repairmen shoring up walls, fixing broken doors and windows, trying to hide the damage. Bloodstaff pellets had torn into walls, leaving deep gashes and pockmarks that could not be easily hidden from view. Anyone entering the palace would wonder what had happened. And Amalia could not allow that.

So many of the elite Athesian Royal Guard had been killed or maimed. Many highly skilled, devoted soldiers lay dead, some broken so badly they could not be recognized. It was all her fault.

They had moved Amalia’s and the mother-empress’s bedchambers into a single shared room in the north wing, closer to her office. The Imperial Manse was officially closed for visitors and petitions for now, until they could sort this mess out.

Few people had seen Calemore and lived to tell about it, but the rumors would spread. People busy removing parts of their friends from the masonry would have quite a tale to share once they went into inns to drown in liquor the memories of their grisly task. And they would elaborate on the missing details and give life to horror and panic. She could not allow that.

“We will need to fashion a replica,” Theo continued, as if reading her mind. “People must not suspect what has really happened here. We will need a cover story. This could have been an assassination attempt against the empress. By her half brother.”

Luke, for all his shock, managed to shake his head and counter. “If we implicate anyone specific, we risk making a choice that might not be easily undone. We do not know that the empress’s alleged half brother was involved. By accusing him, we might let the real enemy go free.”

Amalia wanted to go back to her chamber and sleep. But they would not let her. She slept with her mother now. She was under constant supervision, with a dozen men and women present at all times. It was a futile display of impotence. Somehow she knew if that crazy man came back, her escort would make no difference whatsoever.

Things were going extremely badly. Luke had informed her that there were no Pum’be available to take the mission against her alleged bastard half brother and his cadre of impostors. Either they did not deign to provide her with their services or they were too busy with previous assignments. But this meant she would need to use ordinary assassins against the pretenders, the number of whom had doubled recently.

The city was boiling with fear and confusion, on the verge of anarchy, with trade dying slowly. Crime was soaring. There were rumors of war everywhere, with conflicting reports of Parusite forces south and east and west, against all logic. And she had lost her best weapon.

She was no longer invincible. Her own face was a bitter, harsh testimony to that. Athesia was not ready for war yet. The High Council in Eybalen had not officially responded yet, although she did receive all kinds of informal queries and requests from Eybalen guilds, who were worried about the future of their businesses. Caytor seemed divided on the issue of Athesia. Some favored military invasions. Others called for isolation. Others pushed for maintaining the status quo. On the other side of the map, some ambitious count was riding toward Athesia, wielding hope and salvation. She wondered what the rumored Eracian emissary would have to offer when he arrived to the city.

Time was not on her side. Roalas was sliding toward anarchy. Food prices were rising, hand in hand with theft and smuggling. If only half a year ago no Athesian would look at his neighbor wrongly for the sin of his birth, the almost invisible yet palpable line of division and mistrust was forming up between the two camps. Like green mold on stale bread, religion was creeping back into people’s lives, an echo of days past. It was cheaper than bread and more promising. Amalia had never expected to hear the word Feor again, but it was there, a foot boil that wouldn’t go away. Old temples lay in ruins, charred, abandoned, a shelter for birds and the deranged, but now and then, someone would leave a token offering on the broken stone steps.

The major city squares had their skylines ruined with gallows, bodies of dissidents, criminals, and spies swinging, a warning to all. But the stench of death was not how she wanted to be remembered.

Her mother reached for a cup of wine and drank. Amalia realized she had not touched hers. She lifted her arm, saw her fingers tremble, and lowered it into her lap.

“There’s no point arguing about the attack,” she said, trying to sober up from her misery. “It’s done, and it could not have been prevented. We must focus on making Athesia strong. A war is inevitable, so let’s be prepared for our foes. Luke, I will need more information on the Parusite movement. I want to know whether they are going to attack.”
Just like they did eighteen years ago. It’s all happening again
.

The head of the Secret Guard nodded. A tense silence stretched.

Amalia thought she could hear the slow, measured steps of guards outside her office.

The empress-mother could hear them too, armor and leather creaking beyond the closed door; she could envision the half a dozen fully armed men with lowered visors and drawn swords pacing the hall, making turns at the corridor ends, walking the miserable walk of people who punished themselves for something they could not have prevented.
It’s a waste of good men
, Lisa thought. She remembered her husband’s near brushes with death. Soldiers would always be very alert after they failed at their task.

The old adviser coughed. “Perhaps the war can be stopped. There’s one more thing you need to consider.”

They all looked at Theo with surprise.

“What is it?” Amalia looked annoyed.

“You may want to consider a marriage into one of the other realms.”

Gerald frowned, but said nothing.

Amalia snorted. “I will marry when I choose.”

The old adviser snapped his fingers. “Exactly. You can undo a lot of the political pressure if you formally announce your interest in marriage. Think about it. Say you promise to marry one of the high councillors. This will mean instant alliance. Furthermore, Caytor will get a claim to their old land, so they will need not plot any revenge. And you will undo the effort of all other impostors. If Caytor sides with you, then the Eracians will also need to consider making conciliatory actions to win your affection back, lest they provoke Caytor. They will fear our united military and economic power. Or you could choose to do the same with Eracia. You can promise Monarch Leopold to marry his son.”

“That boy’s a cretin!” She remembered the Spring Festival from, what, three or four years ago, when that bard sang of Droolin’ Ludwig. Most people had laughed, but it had been a sort of a forced laugh. You could never really know what your children would be like when they came into the world.

“And probably incapable of performing the marriage duty. We would then annul the bond, and you could have him replaced with a suitable husband a few years later while still bonding Eracia close to you. You may even want to consider thawing relations with Parus.”

“They are religious zealots,” Amalia said. “They preach of honor, yet they beat their wives. They treat common people like animals, as if they own them.”

The old man smiled softly. Just a few short generations ago, Eracia and Caytor had been like that, kingdoms of absolute power and loyalty. It was only when they had capitulated to utter and complete poverty and desolation that they had let go of their ancient customs and rebuilt their societies. It happened during the Leprous War, Theo recalled. The nobleman was forced to bend knee and let the commoner take his place. Eracia still clung to the ideals of aristocracy, but the monarch was mostly a decorative figurehead. The Caytoreans now called their rich people lords and ladies, but they could have originally come from the filthiest gutter for all they cared.

“It’s the best way to bridge the gap. The Parusites should not be disdained. King Sergei has several sons. They are almost your age.” He said nothing of the crippled royal toddler.

Amalia clenched her fists. “Marriage is not an option.”

Theodore rolled his eyes. “You’re a stubborn child, Amalia.”

“I’m the empress of this realm, and I will not back down because some sorcerer infiltrated my chambers. I will not be intimidated.” She only wished she felt half as determined as she hoped she sounded.

Lisa laid a gentle hand on her daughter’s shoulder. But her eyes were focused on Theodore, and the look they bore was not mild. “Kind sir, you have shared enough advice for one day, don’t you think? My daughter has assassinations to plan, her own half brother to frame for this act, and three realms to marry.”

The old man seemed taken aback by this reprimand.

Gerald sighed loudly. “Our first duty is to ensure the safety of the empress.” He looked at Amalia. “I have failed in my duty, Your Highness,” he spoke, his voice a little firmer than before, but still dulled by pain and shock. “It will not happen again.”

“Stop babbling,” Theodore lashed. He turned toward the young man. “Son, this is your first big failure in life. Trust me, there will be many more. Get used to it. Now focus. Roalas needs you. You cannot resign from your duty, nor can you become a personal bodyguard. Your skill and leadership go beyond trying to soothe your conscience.”

Amalia bit her lip. Exactly what she thought and felt, but could not bring herself to say out loud. “Captain Gerald,” she said at last, “you will make sure Roalas is ready for war. I need you. You’re the only one who can do that. Please.”

He nodded weakly. “Yes, Your Highness, I will.”

“If you do not desire to resolve this by peace or wedlock ties, then we will need magic,” Theodore said, raising the older topic again, his earlier setback forgotten. “Swords will not be enough. We are dealing with forces beyond our understanding. We must contact the Sirtai and ask for their assistance. We must seek all witches that live in Athesia and see if they can help.”

The empress-mother was angry now, but she said nothing.

“I would advise against it,” Gerald interjected. “We cannot allow magic wielders here. It would be dangerous, Your Highness. We cannot control magic. This would spell chaos.”

The idea of tens or maybe hundreds of volatile, half-mad, and extremely dangerous witches and sorcerers all banded together, roaming the streets of Roalas sounded like fresh kindling for the fires of anarchy and disarray that had swept the city streets. What would happen if a war broke out? Would they fight for Roalas? Who did their loyalty belong to?

Theodore shook his head. “Times are changing. Eighteen years ago, Athesia did not exist. We must adapt, lad. We must survive. I will do everything I can to make sure we prevail.”

Amalia was listening, thinking, but her head was starting to hurt. True, most soldiers did not like the concept of magic. Maybe it was instinct; maybe it was superstition. Deep, deep down, any soldier knew their long years of experience meant nothing against the invisible threads of sorcery. They were useless against magic. The realms had an innate fear of it. It was a legacy from an age long forgotten. But some terrors survived conscious thought and lived deep inside the bones.

They all knew Adam had brought magic back into the realms, but no one dared admit it. Few really understood it. Some may have seen the terrible outcome of the last war. Some may have even written stories or sang songs about it, but it was just a legendary tale of a legendary man. But in a strange, surreal way, the concept of a ruler wielding unearthly death was acceptable, almost reassuring. The idea that any simple peasant or an obscure townsman might wield incredible powers that equaled those of emperors was frightening and humbling.

Amalia looked at her chief spy. Luke did not seem pleased. Neither did her mother. Magic meant she would become a beggar. She would have to depend on strangers to steer the fate of her people. But Theodore was older and more pragmatic. He had known her father well. He knew what it took to survive. Every little crumb he could scrape mattered.

“Amalia, listen to me.” The old man rallied on. “We still have time. Evacuate the city. Seal the borders. Pull all our forces back into defensive positions. Let the hostages go. Announce your marriage plans. Meanwhile, I will seek out Sirtai magic wielders. We will have bought ourselves a year or two, enough to plan the next stage carefully.”

Yes, it did sound reasonable, Amalia thought. The old man made a lot of sense. But something primal inside her would not let go. She could not stop now.

“Enough,” she snapped. “I need to think.”

She had started the whole affair and had to see it through. A grim destiny awaited her. But each day, her resolve dwindled more and more. Each morning brought new nasty surprises, more bad news, another defeat, another setback. If she believed in the gods, she would have thought this was divine intervention against her. Since she did not, she wondered how foolish and weak she was.

Calemore had left her exposed, wounded, fragile. She felt violated. Her life was insignificant. She had not told anyone the man’s identity. She doubted anyone would have known him. The White Witch had felt ancient, timeless, beyond the simple affairs of humans. He had made her feel small. He had made her struggle seem pointless.

She wished she had spent some time reading
The Book of Lost Words
. She felt she would have found answers there.

Her control was slipping. Her best officers looked broken. Theodore did not listen to her anymore. And she had no plan, no idea how to extricate herself from this mess. She desperately needed guidance, but there was none.

The latest rumors of a Parusite invasion sounded like the worst piece of news yet, if they could be believed. They had lain silently for eighteen years, let the realms move on while they struggled with their defeat and healed a torn country. Amalia could understand their deep hatred for Athesia. But there was no consistent news from the south. The Sixth Legion was quiet, so if there were any trouble, they would have known about it. Luke’s men were overstretched. They worked around the clock, hunting saboteurs and following spies, feeding them false news, which would then bounce back as genuine tidings. There was no way of knowing fact from gossip. Truth and lie merged. It was becoming too confusing. Amalia seriously considered ordering an attack against Caytor. This would divert the attention from the hostage situation. It would give her breathing space she so desperately needed.