The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (40 page)

“Why can’t you? I’m your empress.”

Gerald stepped deeper into the chamber.
Careful now
, he thought. Oh, he was tired. In the last several weeks, he had realized that his affection for Amalia was probably more than just infatuation. When she’d almost been killed by that magic assassin, he had felt such urgency of fear in his heart that it numbed him. He had always liked Amalia, both as a woman and a person, but he’d never thought beyond the gaping chasm of reality that separated them. Then, during the Pum’be attack, he had learned that death stalked them. Any moment, they could die. There was no time for finesse, no time for pretense, no time for illusions. He should tell her how he felt.

But his desire was just another sweet dream.

He was sworn to protect her. His duty came first. Besides, why would she care about him?

“Your Highness, I must—”

“Come here.” She beckoned, and he approached. “Kiss me,” she repeated. Her eyes were closed. She waited.

Gerald sighed. He leaned and gently laid his lips on her own. Just a soft, dry peck.

Amalia opened her eyes. “Was it hard for you?”

He shook his head. “Your scar does not mar your beauty.”

Suddenly, she leaned forward and kissed him. On the cheek. “Thank you.”

You’re such a fool
, he berated himself.
What the fuck did you expect?
He kept the swirling black cauldron of crushing sorrow and disappointment deep, deep inside, never let the emotions float up to his face. He owed her that much, his unreserved loyalty. And there was no place for childish passion in these harsh times.

“I am considering marrying Leopold’s son,” she admitted after a long pause.

And just like that, your stupid dreams are dashed
, Gerald thought. He cursed his naivety. Who did he think he was? How dare he?

“Your Highness,” he said weakly, unable to contain his feelings.

She looked at him. Her eyes were glazed and sparkly from the milk of the poppy. “Would it matter to you? Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

Gerald clenched his fists hard. “I think a marriage should be one of love.”

Amalia bit her lip. “I love my nation. I love my people. Perhaps Theo has it right. It is my duty to protect the people. If this means saving Athesia from destruction, then so be it.”

Destruction. Roalas was in a hopeless state. Encircled and outnumbered on all fronts by siege armies, well prepared, trained, and better equipped. For every fighter in the city, there were ten people who needed taking care of, women and children and noncombatants who lived their lives in a surreal state between life and death. None of Gerald’s men had seen war before, except the few hard-core veterans. Most of the army’s top officers had been assassinated. The city supplies would run out in just a few short months. The situation was dire.

They both felt the moment of silence stretch for too long. “How’s the war business going?” she asked, as if reading his mind. Since the assassination attempt, Amalia had kept to her mother’s chamber, healing, avoiding the harsh world outside.

I must tell her the truth. I owe her that much
, Gerald thought. He pushed his pain aside and delivered his report. He spared no gory details.

“We need to try to communicate with other legions. If we can muster a relief force that comprises of the remaining units in Bassac and Ecol, we might break the siege on the north side. Or they could join Nicholas in Caytor and launch an offensive against those pirates. We could gain access to the sea and have fresh supplies ferried in. And we could set sail to the south and land a raiding party behind the Parusite lines.”

Amalia was silent for a moment. “The Fourth stays in Caytor. If my would-be brother decides to make a move, they will be ready to check him.”

“Have you considered treating with this James? If he’s really interested in the Athesian throne, he may be willing to cooperate. He might not want to see his future realm burned to the ground, now would he? Our combined forces could make a much bigger impact. We could attack both east and north.”

“I will not negotiate with that impostor. He will die.” Some of her old fervor was back. She was energetic once more, infused with fury and stubbornness.

Gerald forced his emotions down. The empress was mulling some bad choices. But what could he do? Oppose her? He was sworn to her, regardless of what she did. Tell her the truth? But if he voiced his opinion, would she listen to him? On the other hand, was it not his duty to let her know what he thought, to help her make the best decision? Her father had never expected any less.

“It’s a mistake,” he blurted, choosing honesty.
That or marrying Ludwig of Eracia?

Amalia turned away, walked away. She stood in front of the window, staring outside. The enemy lines were endless. And growing in their midst, like a handful of gigantic caterpillars, were siege machines, tall, black, twisted things with fangs and ropes. It was drizzling. The world had a dreary, bleak cast to it. The rain had finally put out the fires in the slums. The city’s outskirts looked like a giant pile of dry cow dung, kicked over and savaged by a boar. People called it the Inferno now.

Half a mile of destruction separated Roalas from the Parusite forces. On the walls, soldiers patrolled idly. Some were bored, jeering insults at the enemy. Engineers were fondling their units, oiling them, fixing them, making them even better and deadlier.

Amalia smiled sadly. If there were one thing she’d done well in this war, it was the Fuckers. But then, she hadn’t really done anything. And even the quirky name was not her invention. Master Reese had done all of the smart work.

Closer still, jammed in between the thick walls and the Imperial Manse, was the seething, throbbing heart of Roalas, thousands of narrow streets and stone houses and laundry lines and soot and bird droppings. People moved down the tightly packed lanes in lethargic columns, dejected, terrified, dazed, the yoke of war pulling on their scrawny necks. Life bustled as only life could, but it was strained. Too little trade, too much violence. There wasn’t a day without at least a dozen people being hanged for theft. There wasn’t a day without fire breaking out. Former Eracians and Caytoreans had all of a sudden remembered their former nationalities. Relations were becoming strained. Luke’s forces unearthed spies and saboteurs everywhere. Arson, rape, treachery, her rule had been reduced to petty crimes and despair.

Amalia wondered if she were ever meant to rule Athesia. Perhaps James would do a better job. Maybe she should surrender Roalas to him. Maybe she was just a stupid child bringing ruin to her people. Even her commanders mocked her. She was certain that they were conspiring against her.

But she had not expected Gerald to be like that. Not him. It hurt.

“Explain,” she said.

Gerald swallowed. “You must not dismiss your half brother lightly, Your Highness.”

Amalia snorted. “It’s not about the impostor. It never was. He’s an instrument in the hands of the High Council, nothing more. He’s meaningless. But he stands for what the Caytoreans want. If I acknowledge the legitimacy of his claim, we lose.”

“Our primary concern is the war with the Parusites. Politics can wait.”

“I think Theodore might be working for the Parusites,” she said suddenly, and he looked shocked. It must be the potions. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

“You need to rest, Your Highness,” he spoke softly. “The old man has seen a lot of grief in his life. He’s lived under the councillors and their constant scheming, through the scourge of the Feorans, your father’s siege and his brilliant rule, and now he’s learned to adapt to your own style. If anything, the man’s loyal to this city, to the idea he represents. He might sound like a coward sometimes, but he only has the best interest of Roalas in his heart.”

Amalia closed her eyes. Gerald rarely ever called her Amalia, despite her insistence. He tried, but then lapsed back to using official titles. His awkwardly distant manner reminded her that she had never really had any true friends. She had never really had anyone to confide in. Agatha was her maid, but she was not her friend.

“Did you talk to the mother-empress, Your Highness?” Gerald asked, his tone desperate.

Amalia sighed. “My mother believes in peace. She thinks this conflict can be solved by simply laying down the swords and negotiating a favorable truce. But she’s wrong. This war is about our survival as a nation, as a realm. Our neighbors will not accept us until they are beaten into submission.”

“Your Highness,” he chirped dryly.

“I want you to call me Amalia,” she reminded him for the hundredth time.

“As you wish, Your…Amalia.” His tone was dry, formal now.

She turned to face him again. He really was a handsome, rugged man. But he had never shown her any affection. Except…except when she’d been attacked by the Pum’be. He had held her close. And today. He had kissed her. Well, she had ordered him to, but still…

She wished she could have some time to get to know him. Not as the commander of the City Guard, captain of Roalas, but as Gerald, a person, a man. She wished she could lay aside her imperial mask and be just a simple girl for once in her life. She wanted to be able to talk to Gerald, really talk, like those servant girls did with cooks and stableboys and smiths. She yearned for affection and friendship and love.

No, she could not love him. How could she love someone she might send to his death the next day? He was her father’s man, loyal to the death. He had shared her father’s fears and doubts. And now, he shared hers. But he would have done the same if James were living in Roalas and she were the exiled princess trying to win back her country. Gerald was a shadow to her life. He saw what few other people could, her fears, her doubts, her indecision. Only her little diary held more secrets. And then, she realized she hadn’t written anything new in more than a week. There was nothing to write down except the empty blackness of her soul.

Her finger touched the small book on the polished table. Idly, she pushed it around.

Amalia realized she was being a fool. How could she think Gerald would conspire against her? He was the one person who truly cared about her. And she had betrayed his trust. She could see that now. His face was etched with deep pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he mumbled.

“Yes, there is. I’m sorry.” She tottered to the side of her bed and picked up the fake bloodstaff. It was a token, but it still mattered. She extended her arm. “Here. Officially, you’re the ruler now. Do what is necessary.”

Gerald walked to her side. He put his big hands on her upper arms, stroking softly. She shivered from his touch.

“Your Highness, I can’t do that. Please.”

“I need a friend,” she whispered.

“I am your friend. Forever,” he blurted.

“Do you think I’m a bad ruler?” She was crying now, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Gerald grimaced. “I think you’re a great ruler. You’re very brave. I can’t imagine anyone doing it better than you. We are facing dreadful obstacles, but we will overcome them.”

Was he being sincere, or did his words become the truth he believed in the moment he uttered them? He did not know. He just knew that he would perform his duty. He was sworn to her, even if it meant his own death.

“I thought I knew war from my father’s teachings, but I don’t,” she sobbed. “And the book. I never read the book.”

“It’s all right,” he whispered and hugged her. He didn’t really know what that book was.

“Please help me,” she said.

“Yes, I will, Your Highness…Amalia.” He knew what he had to do.

There was a polite knock at the door. The two of them jumped apart. Amalia smoothed her gown. Gerald rubbed his face. He laid a hand on his sword. She nodded.

“Enter,” he boomed.

The three bodyguards entered, followed by Lieutenant Edwin. “Your Highness. Sir.” He bowed curtly. “Bad news.”

Gerald realized he was still standing too close to Amalia. He casually stepped away. “What is it?”

“That son-of-a-whore Driscoll—pardon my language, Your Highness—has defected.”