The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (29 page)

Being a member of the Privy Council had its perks, but Bart failed to enjoy them. The monarch was a very difficult man to work with. He was petulant and suffered from mood swings. Working for the ruler was part honor, part abuse, mostly the latter. For all practical purposes, Bart was a clerk. He wasn’t liked or respected; it was his money that made him a member of the council.

Going on this mission could save Eracia, could prevent a war. And it might save him from the stupor of his pointless life. The harsh words of rebuke by his wife on the eve of his departure reverberated soundly in his mind. Countess Sonya had disapproved of him leaving Somar, naturally, for her entirely selfish reasons. She believed in proximity to power. She wanted him to shadow the monarch and exploit any situation that might grant him favor with the ruler. This trip was a disgrace, she thought.

All he wanted was peace and prosperity. She wanted power, craved power. Ultimately, he was doing precisely that, and she hated him for it.

Sentences were etched into his mind, a constant reminder of what he was trying to achieve riding a horse, hurting his backside, and tanning his skin. He vividly recalled her scorn. She had told him how he was not so young anymore, how he could not handle the hardship of the road, how he lacked the stamina and courage to succeed.

Oh, he was going to ride a horse, just like his soldiers. It was childish, but he felt good, and the suntan on his face and arms was like a badge of honor.

“Your weapons, sir,” Rebecca said, and he snapped back to reality. The Parusite soldier got the honorifics wrong, but at least she tried. “Your men will stay here. They won’t be harmed.” Perhaps she did know how her troops behaved after all.

It took a few minutes for the fuss to settle down. His men and the single woman were escorted to another open tent, where they were given drinks and snacks. The soldier from earlier had tagged along and was trying to talk to Corporal Kacey.

“Follow me.” Rebecca turned and waited for him, radiating impatience. He joined her, and they walked side by side.

The road curved and dipped suddenly. Beyond the ridge, a small army camp stood, invisible to anyone approaching from the west. It was ringed in stakes and had a massive presence of guards. Bart frowned. This was not just a simple roadblock.

He was led into a warren of tents. Then, toward a big ocher one. It looked like the rest of them, flaps down, covered in dust that masked some of the original hue. There were no special markers that made it any different from all the others. Three women blocked the entrance, one armed with a crossbow, the other two holding spears.

“Enter.” Rebecca pointed. Bart frowned. This was strange. But he bent down and ducked inside.

He entered and stopped, almost gaping. He was not greeted by just any Red Caps officer. The woman who stared back and nodded curtly was Princess Sasha herself.

Bartholomew recognized her face from paintings. She was not known for going abroad much, but rumors of her military career had traveled far and wide. The king’s twin was the revolutionary who had liberated Parusite women of the yoke of oppression and near slavery. She had turned ancient customs upside down and shattered all known boundaries of law and religion. Bart could only begin to imagine the hardship she had had to endure to achieve that.

Eracia had its share of successful, daring, even extraordinary female commanders, but Parus had a living legend. In the span of just one generation, the young princess had created a reality that surpassed centuries of war between Eracia and Caytor. It had taken desperation and near extinction to make the Eracians sacrifice their women in war. It had taken the Parusites just one large military defeat to decide they should not let something like that ever happen again. The swiftness and enormity of their change was troubling.

The count stood stunned, speechless.

Sasha was standing, watching him carefully. There was another woman in the tent, seated in the corner and dressed in yellow, holding a book in her lap. Two scribes were perched nearby, with ledgers and pens, taking notes. And a bodyguard of sorts was playing the role of a statue near the entrance, Bart noticed, with her big, meaty arm resting on the pommel of her sword.

“A mute diplomat. That’s a novelty,” the princess commented dryly.

He recovered quickly. “My apologies. Count Bartholomew of Barrin, emissary to Monarch Leopold in Somar, the supreme ruler of Eracia, Your Highness,” he babbled sweetly.

“I know where Monarch Leopold sits,” she said in the same flat tone.

The brusqueness and lack of formality seemed to come from the highest echelons, Bart noted. It was no wonder the Parusite soldiers could afford to abuse strangers and dignitaries. Their commander allowed it.

“Why don’t you ask the obvious question?” She gestured for him to speak.

Bart frowned. “What would that be, Your Highness?”

Princess Sasha sighed. “Why am I lurking in this little camp rather than in a big one crawling with thousands of soldiers? Or rather, why am I not surrounded with opulence and wealth?”

The count was impressed. The woman was sharp. Her eyes shone with intelligence. “What would your answer to that question be, Your Highness?”

“The answer is simple. It’s much easier finding a traitor or a spy in a small camp where you know every face around you. Now, a clever tactician might point out that an army would have a decent chance of defeating my small force. But it’s really not as simple as that.”

Bart remembered the almost endless fields of Parusite soldiers. No one could approach the princess within twenty leagues without being confronted by thousands of troops. He liked her reasoning. It was bold. It was different from anything he had expected.

He liked it.

Instantly, he regretted never having traveled to Sigurd on a diplomatic mission. Having met the king and his twin sister would have been a valuable lesson. But with the Territories separating the two realms, cold relations over many generations, and huge religious differences, Eracia had never really tried to befriend Parus. It felt like a big mistake now.

The count wondered how his journey today could have been so much easier. Or even unneeded. Leopold could have done so many things, like tried to marry one of the duchesses to King Sergei, or tried to find an Eracian husband for Sasha, but the monarch was too proud. But then, the Red Caps commander had never married. It was quite strange.

Bart looked at her. She radiated calm confidence and utter control. She was pretty, too.

“You wish to meet my brother, then?” she asked.

He nodded. “I would like to negotiate a treaty with the king, Your Highness.”

Sasha beckoned him closer. “Tell me more about it.”

Bart cleared his throat. There was no point trying to evade answering. “You are well aware that Empress Amalia has taken hundreds of Eracian dignitaries hostage. Our elite are detained against their wishes in Roalas. We are also aware that Parus plans to invade Athesia. It seems inevitable that the Athesian capital would become the focus of fighting. We hope to avoid any unnecessary casualties.”

He probably should not be speaking to her about his plans so openly, not before meeting with the empress first and discussing the rather delicate situation. But he felt mesmerized by her lethal, cold charm.

“So you ask Parusite siege engineers to make their shots well aimed?”

He knew she was underplaying the importance of his message. “In a nutshell, yes.”

Sasha rubbed her chin. “This is definitely something for the king. I don’t have any siege engines.” She turned toward the woman in yellow robes. A priestess, most likely, Bart noted. Yes, definitely. They spoke in low voices.

Bart cracked his knuckles. Yet another token of a huge cultural gap between Eracia and Parus. His people had abandoned any deep involvement in religious matters long ago. The Parusites were quite keen on prayer and rituals. And they made sure the priests approved of their actions. The destruction of the Territories by the Feorans had come as a huge blow to their beliefs. But they had endured. And now, they had come back, stronger than before.

Bart did not know if the attack on Athesia was personal vengeance or a war against infidels. Perhaps both. Or something else entirely. Caytor and Eracia had blundered seriously for never really considering Parus a political partner in their games. They had been too busy warring with one another. Now, their southern neighbors were coming north, armed to the teeth and with godly conviction in their hearts.

“You will be assigned an escort on your journey east. You are now officially a guest of the Parusite king. And his sister.” She lifted an empty parchment from a table and handed it to a scribe.

Escort. He realized they would be there to protect him, but also to monitor his every move and make sure he did not go anywhere they did not want him to go or do anything they did not want him to do. Like disclosing the location of the Red Caps headquarters to a potential ally. Bart mentioned nothing about his intention to parley with Empress Amalia, but Sasha seemed to know his intentions.

“Where will I meet the king, Your Highness?”

She smiled. “Well, if things progress smoothly, it could happen in Roalas. So you’d better hurry then. We don’t want a whole bunch of dead Eracian nobles and Caytorean merchants on our conscience. Who knows how these incidents might escalate. Thank you, Count Bartholomew.”

She dismissed him.

He wanted to linger. He wanted to talk to her some more, learn more about her. He felt fascinated, as a scholar, as a man. But she was no longer looking at him, her eyes bored into the swath of papers on the table below, so he bowed and left.

Her warning was clear. Diplomacy was his second nature. There was no promise the Eracian hostages would be spared the wrath of the oncoming war, especially if they stood in the way of victory. Oh, how he wished to have spent just one summer in Sigurd. Now, the Parusites were total strangers. And they did not really fear the Eracians. Bart would have to think of a smart strategy when he met King Sergei. The Parusites had an agenda of their own and might not appreciate anyone dictating the rules of the game. Trade alliances and marriage offers might be decent gambles, but there was no way of knowing. Bart would learn the truth when he met the Parusite ruler.

A tickle of fear ran up his spine. Despite that, he was excited. This was his expertise. The games of mind and power, wrapped in fancy language.

His troops were unharmed, but they did seem a little harassed. The Parusite soldiers had given them a share of their blunt disrespect, it seemed. They assembled quickly. Once again, Bart chose to ride a horse. Half an hour later, they were ready to go.

Forty female auxiliary cavalry shared their side, mounted on sturdy horses ideal for long-range patrolling, armed with short swords and crossbows. They stared at the Eracian party as an exotic exhibit in a museum. A murmur of lewd suggestions rained on his guards, past cultural and religious barriers. His only female soldier tried to make herself invisible. The men looked positively bright, if a little shocked.

Compared to the Eracian female soldiers, the Parusite bunch looked rough and raw and unabashed. Perhaps in a few generations’ time, the cadre would become more refined and grow from within academies and army establishment. Now, the Red Caps behaved like a bunch of brigands, haphazardly collected and united in their desire to kill and loot and pillage. They were a raucous lot, boosted by an age of frustration and repression. The demons of Parusite society rode on their shoulders, letting go of all the evils and wrongdoings that Parusite women had suffered throughout the nation’s written history.

Bart had read the annals on the last big war. He could not help but notice that the Red Caps resembled Emperor Adam’s legions. They were rough, crude, elemental. They were tough and dangerous. They were outcasts and mavericks, survivors, abandoned souls, and butchers. They fiercely worshipped their commander. And they went against everything the rule book read.

He wondered if King Sergei noticed that, too. He would probably not appreciate the irony.

It was midday. There was still plenty of riding time left. Bart took a deep breath, reveled in the stubborn power his military inferiority gave him, and rode on east to make the world a better place. He did not think about his wife or lucrative titles. His thoughts were solely about Princess Sasha.

CHAPTER 19

T
hey traveled at a snail’s pace. Constance was just too weak for the journey, even though she’d probably die before admitting it. She could not ride, but she could not walk either. She needed food and rest too often. Sometimes Ewan carried her in his arms, like a child. They were not going anywhere, it seemed.

But Ewan endured it. What else could he do?

Regardless, Constance was getting better. Sunlight helped heal her wounds, at least on the inside. They usually slept over two hours after dawn, paused three or four times during daylight, and camped for the night well before the sun set. The extra breaks gave her a chance to recuperate. Walking helped heal her broken ribs. Riding was far more difficult, with the bobbing motion a torture for her ruined body, but she stubbornly endured it, with tears down her cheeks and blood on her lips where she bit them through in her silent agony. Yet, she persisted the way only women could. Her arm was still useless; Ewan estimated at least two weeks before he would hazard taking the cast off.