The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (33 page)

They reached the crossroads leading to Gray’s Cut and Smith’s Street. A pair of constables watched out for disturbances, keeping a small crowd of onlookers from approaching too close.

Amalia stopped, pondering. The alley full of sooty shops or the butchers? Neither sounded too appealing to her, but the farther her steps took her away from the manse, the poorer the city’s districts became. With the curtain walls in sight behind the hedgehog of steep shingled rooftops and fat black chimneys, Roalas turned ugly and scarred. Many of the houses bore old, old marks of former fights and struggles, dating back two and three generations ago. Still, she must be here. They did not need her in the rich parts. The city’s elite stood firmly behind her—she hoped.

One of the corner buildings was an abandoned temple. Not the old gods. A Feoran house of worship. Thieves had stolen the leaded glass and any other valuables long ago. Emperor Adam had purposefully ordered these temples left in their ruined state as a reminder to all. But then, she noticed a wreath of dried flowers laid at the steps leading into the chapel.

“Get that cleaned,” she said quietly. A soldier in the retinue detached and went to remove the flowers. He lifted them in his gloved hand and stared stupidly, considering what to do now. Finally, he just tossed them into a gutter in the nearby alley.

Only two days ago, they had caught and expelled a group of new Feoran worshippers. Amalia wondered where they had suddenly come from after lying in wait for two decades, but she knew that faith was like the stretch marks on a mother’s belly. They got bigger or smaller, or paler or darker, but they never quite went away.

She had to be careful. Luke would have to find all sources of opposition budding in the city, rich and poor and religious. She had to make sure there were no sectarian or national crimes, no old scores being settled, no ancient hates or vendettas brought to life. She didn’t quite know how to achieve that. And she didn’t know what to do with the thousands of refugees cramming Roalas.

Amalia hated her indecision. She just could not bring herself to do what she felt she ought to. Roalas should be empty of civilians. It should be a battle keep, teeming with soldiers. Her legions should be parked around the city, waiting, ready to strike. But that would mean leaving the rest of Athesia at the mercy of the other realms. She could not allow that.

Army scouts reported plenty of activity on all borders. The Eracians were the least of her worries, for now, it seemed. They shuffled their troops out of the barracks and marched them from one garrison to another, but they had made no move against Athesia yet. They probably didn’t have sufficient manpower to scale an attack. Or the monarch was just waiting to see what success his envoy would have; he still hadn’t arrived in the city, or at the very least, announced himself to Amalia.

The Caytoreans were a much bigger threat. Luckily, they were busy trying to outsmart one another. The plague of false heirs had turned Caytor into a political battlefield. Each of the factions wanted their impostor to be the favorite champion. The situation felt like the early beginning of civil war. For Caytor, that would mean bribes, business merges, financial takeovers, some assassinations, and some private armies flexing their muscles. Amalia did not want to know what would happen if they chose to unite their efforts. One thing was sure, they were trying to ignore her for now. But there was time. There was still time.

In the south, there was an alarming flood of reports of military activity. After eighteen years of silence, the Parusites were stirring. Perhaps they were truly testing her resolve. It was to be expected. Her father had nearly destroyed them. King Sergei must have a deep grudge against Athesia. But the Sixth Legion could handle the Parusites if they decided to cause any trouble, she thought. The Parusite king would not dare risk his realm again to pride and folly. Not after what had happened to them the last time.

War seemed more real than ever. And yet, everyone pretended as if nothing was happening. Trade continued. And with trade came hope. Everyone believed that one day, the tension would just evaporate and things would go back to the way they always were.

Amalia believed she still had the initiative. The hostages were still a valuable bargaining tool. The Eracians would wait for her next move. She just hoped the High Council in Eybalen would make an official statement. So far, they had kept quiet. The only truly unaccounted element were her southern neighbors. She worried, but she had too few definite leads to make any decisions.

Well, if she had to fight Parus, she wanted the other two realms allied behind her. Ironically, she could undo all of their opposition so easily. She just had to surrender to their terms. Yield. Let the hostages go. Extend a friendly hand. But she could not.

She just could not.

Surrender meant the death of Athesia. There might not be any bloodshed, but over time, the realm would simply vanish. It would be swallowed by hard trade, made insignificant. Eracia and Caytor would impoverish her. Athesia had to remain a benevolent threat, had to remain the mortal danger, so that Eracia and Caytor could never be sure if war might break out on the morrow. Or worse, if Athesia decided to ally with just one of the realms. Athesia had to remain the hated counterbalance to their historical animosity, a cold reminder that peace and prosperity was her doing, her whim, a gift that could be snatched away any moment. A reminder of the delicate balance that existed because Athesia existed.

The narrow alleys got crowded. The skyline vanished, became a spiderweb of ropes sagging with washed clothes strung between buildings. A large press of people was congregated in one of the squares, which branched off into a dozen even narrower lanes. On the battlements, bored soldiers stood and watched the procession.

Citizens waved at her. Women raised their small children, offering them as a kind of gift, waiting for the empress to touch them. It was a somewhat eerie display, with large-sized toddlers wobbling in their mothers’ arms, heads lolling and eyes wandering, focusing on things only babies found interesting. A few looked at her with vicious intensity.

Amalia wore her happy face, smiling. She tried to let mirth touch her eyes. People could sense fraud easily. There was no place for dishonesty here. These people were her subjects, even if the Athesian regency took a form unlike any other in the realms.

Agatha was busy handing out the sweet breads. Not too quickly.

Gerald walked at her left side so close she could smell him, a haunted look on his face. He had still not recovered from Calemore’s attack. He had lost weight. And his eyes were rimmed with dark circles of fatigue and remorse. She insisted that he keep himself in shape, because she needed him clearheaded and strong, but he would not listen. He had barricaded his soul behind grief and rehearsed what-if death scenes in his head.

Amalia looked at him when he didn’t notice. He was a handsome man. He had a gruff quality about him that made her excited. But she would not dare talk to him. It would be irresponsible. She could not put him in a difficult situation where he must choose between Empress Amalia and just Amalia. It would not be fair, to him and to the entire realm.

As an empress, she ought to be aiming higher, for princes.

The prospect of courting one of the rival faction heirs sounded crazy and alien to her. Perhaps it was her unusual, not-so-strict, upbringing. Perhaps it was the fact that neither her father nor mother had cared about lineage or etiquette. She could not believe in a formal marriage.

But it would be a revolution of a sorts. Despite an almost common culture, the people of the realms did not mix well. They had the same looks, same language, very similar customs, they prayed to the same gods—those who did anyway—but they never quite married into their separate nations. Merging the powers of the noble houses of Eracia with the feudal lines of Parus and the rich families of Caytor sounded like a wild fantasy. There had been a few isolated cases, but nothing major.

Perhaps it was the heritage of countless generations of war that had undone any attempts at bringing the nations closer. After all, Eracia and Caytor only now enjoyed their first reign of peace in centuries. Perhaps something large and monumental had happened with the creation of Athesia. Perhaps it was time for a change.

Gerald sensed her stare. He turned toward her. She averted her eyes, feigning interest in her subjects. She could not imagine herself marrying someone for power. It sounded crazy. Her parents had really loved each other. She could not bear the thought of substituting love for duty.

Something yellow arced out of the crowd.

It flew and hit her in the shoulder.

“Protect the empress!” Gerald screamed. He lunged, tackling her. Her dress caught against his sword hilt and tore. She tripped and fell on the wet cobbles, covered in mashed straw and dirt. Her palms came away black with grime.

Gerald and another soldier loomed above her in a protective circle, swords drawn and large shields extended. The commander of the City Guard was only inches away, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts. His whiskered, muscled neck almost touched her face. He had a musky, manly smell, part sweat, part something else. She inhaled.

Amalia felt no fear, hiding underneath him. She felt safe.

Deputy Edwin ordered his troops to charge. They pushed into the mass of citizens, scattering them. Women gasped; men cursed. Children started to cry. A moan of dismay exploded outward from the crowd. The soldier rushed forward, closing on the attacker.

They found him. The man did not protest.

Amalia looked at her filthy, torn dress. She looked like a beggar. And then she noticed the half piece of a rotten apple on the ground near her feet. Someone had just attacked her with a piece of fruit. There was a stain on her shoulder.

Edwin grabbed the man’s shirt by the collar and punched him hard in the face. The gauntlet connected with a loud noise. Blood sprayed in thick strands. The man collapsed. Edwin, his face red with murderous rage, raised the lobstered fist for another blow.

Amalia saw it happening. She sobered. Suddenly, her shelter felt suffocating. On all fours, she wriggled out, staining her clothes ever more, staggering up.

“No, no, no! Stop!” she shouted.

The deputy pulled back as if whipped. Soldiers rushed toward her, back-to-back, forming a ring, swords drawn and facing the crowd, eyes bobbing, seeking any danger.

“Stand down!” she barked. But they did not obey her. They waited for their captain to speak.

Gerald spent a whole minute assessing the situation. There was no danger. He saw the rotten apple. He deflated. “Stand down.”

“This man is a spy!” Edwin suggested hotly. A ragged cry rippled across the crowd. He waited for the order to finish the man. On the ground, her attacker lay half dazed, his face ruined and torn by the metal. He seemed unaware of what had just happened.

“Do not kill that man,” Amalia warned.

“Your Highness, he attacked you. It’s an offense punishable by death!”

Amalia brushed her hair back. Then she realized her palms were smeared with mud. She wiped them unceremoniously on her dress. All of this because of an apple. It was incredible. The little stain would easily wash off. But the rest of the damage was irreparable. Her own defenders had caused more fuss than the provocateur.

“It is so, but he will be tried justly for his crimes. We do not kill people because we feel like doing it. Arrest him, and throw him in a cell. He shall have a public trial. And I shall preside it.” Amalia felt the hundreds of eyes watching her carefully, judging her.
This is leadership
, she thought.
This is the true meaning of ruling a land
.

Edwin hesitated stubbornly. Only when Gerald moved to disarm him did he relent.

“Are you hurt?” the commander asked her. There was genuine worry in his eyes. But he seemed content with her reaction.

She snorted. “My dress is ruined.”

Gerald exhaled deeply. “I apologize, Your Highness.”

But the fuss would not end just yet. The crowd was dispersing quickly, trying to get away from the bloody scene, but there was a wind of tension howling through the streets. It took her several moments to realize it had nothing to do with her. Something big was happening.

Pushing down the Gray’s Cut from the wall’s end of the street was a delegation of soldiers. They looked a mixed bunch of troops from several legions, plus a handful of city guards and another of Gerald’s deputies, Oliver. His face was a rigid mask of fear.

Her escort bustled the attacker to his feet and led him away. One of the soldiers thumped him on the back of the skull when he thought no one noticed. But she did. It was madness. Why would anyone throw a rotten apple at her? Why? Was she deluding herself about the love and devotion of her people?

Agatha stood nearby, poised like a doe, panicking, unsure what to do. She was not prepared to handle a mud crisis. She seemed on the verge of tears, only the aftereffect of shock from the attack keeping her face dry. Amalia paid no attention. She watched Oliver approach.

“What’s happening?” Gerald was the first to speak as the city bells began to toll. A shrill, long note erupted above the city. Someone had just blown a horn.

“Your Highness, we must take you to safety, now!” Oliver spoke, panting. All around her, city guards armed with crossbows were running, taking defensive positions. From the walls just ahead of her, a horn blasted again, a sad moan of despair. “The war has started, Your Highness. We’ve been invaded.”

So it starts
, she thought. Then she looked at Oliver’s party. Some of the soldiers wore bandages. They had bloodstains on their tunics. They seemed haggard. They seemed like men who had seen death.

“Who are these men?” she asked.

“Sixth Legion, Your Highness. They’ve been routed.” Silence exploded over the assembled troops. Oliver swallowed. He wiped sweat from his temples. “The situation is bad, Your Highness. In fact, it’s a disaster. The Parusites have launched a multipronged attack. They have thousands of mercenaries in their service. They have siege engines and monsters.”