The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (67 page)

Gerald’s joy shattered when he remembered Lieutenant Clive. The old man had succumbed to his wounds. The man had saved his life; he was the real hero. No one honored the dead today, though, because there were simply too many to list and name. Most of the bodies had never been retrieved. What could you offer the families that would mean anything? Empty condolences? A sack of wheat so the children would not go hungry? The proper way to compensate the city’s widows had yet to be decided, he recalled grimly.

It was his task, his responsibility.

The day stretched. He began to sweat. His shoulders ached from the ceremonial armor, a mail plate with a thick coat of gold paint and a large woolen cloak that tugged on the straps and chafed the armpits. At least his side had healed well, with only a rope of scarred skin to chafe him.

“You are the heroes of Roalas,” Amalia repeated after the last of the assembled soldiers got his medal. He limped back into the ranks, the shuffle of his boot an eerie noise in the silent hall. “We owe you our lives.”

In the city’s squares and marketplaces, loud-voiced criers were delivering a shorter, more emotional version of her speech to the masses, all those who could not be present in the palace today.

“Death to the Parusites,” someone called in the crowd. A wave of murmurs erupted.

Gerald grimaced. He had not expected rage cries to be the ceremony’s ending. But the sentiment was too great to contain. Even Amalia sensed it. She lifted the fake glass rod in the air and chanted with them. “Death to the Parusites!”

And then, the ceremony was over.

When Gerald exited the hall, he saw a messenger waiting for him. His muscles tightened. He had almost forgotten about the secret assignment. The noise of horns in the enemy camp still echoed faintly outside.

“Is it done?” he asked.

The man wiped grime from his cheeks. “It is done, sir.”

Gerald exhaled slowly. Now, he had to inform the empress.

“Any reason for all the commotion in the Parusite camp?” Amalia asked Gerald when they assembled in her study. The empress-mother was there, Mayor Benedict, Theodore, Luke, a handful of female bodyguards, Agatha, another servant. It was fairly crowded, and Gerald would have wished for a more private meeting.

Luke looked sideways at Gerald. He nodded back. He would handle this. “Your Highness, we have King Sergei’s son in our hands. He’s safely locked in the cells.”

Silence. Amalia looked up from a swath of reports. Her eyes locked with Gerald’s. Then she looked at Luke, Theodore.

“Who gave the order?” she asked quietly.

Gerald did not blink. “I did, Your Highness.”

Amalia rose. She traced a finger over her scarred ear. “Interesting,” she muttered. If she were displeased with him taking the liberty of doing things without informing her, she was surely excited by the prospect of holding the Parusite prince-heir as a hostage. It changed the whole balance of this war. “Was this your idea?”

Gerald made sure he did not look at the empress-mother when he answered. “Yes, Your Highness.” He had not expected the quiet, reserved woman to approach him and suggest the plan for abducting the king’s firstborn during the Autumn Festival.
“My daughter does not understand what it means to kill for survival,”
she had told him. And then, she spoke like Adam. Nothing was sacred. There were no rules in war.

“Everyone out,” Amalia ordered. “Except Commander Gerald.”

The study emptied. Gerald realized she was waiting for him to speak. “I apologize if I overstepped my authority. But it was necessary, and I do not regret it. Your Highness.”

“Amalia,” she corrected him. Instantly, she deflated. “I want to apologize, too,” she said, sounding timid and vulnerable. The brave posture she had maintained during the ceremony oozed away.

Gerald was puzzled. “What for?”

She stepped close. “For…calling you a fool before the attack. When you didn’t return in the first wave of survivors, I thought you were lost. And I realized that if you had died that morning, my, my…” She trailed off.

Gently, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s all right.” He recalled the one time he had kissed her. She had been delirious from painkillers, insecure, lost, confused. Amalia had almost given up then. And he had promised to stand by her side, as a friend.

The only problem was, he did not really want to be her friend. He wanted more. But his craving was a childish desire. He was sworn to protect her. One day, any day, she might order him to die for her or kill someone in her name. Love had no place in that hierarchy. Did it?

I’m a fool all right
, he thought.

She scrunched her face, suppressing tears. “Do whatever you need to save this city,” she said, changing the subject. “Now, I want to visit the hostage.”

On the way down into the dungeons, Gerald wondered what he might yet need to do to protect Roalas from destruction or starvation. Even if he could stay the Parusite forces indefinitely, sooner or later, they would run out of food. Time was not on his side. He needed another Night of Surprises, ten times over.

Perhaps this prince-heir might be exactly what he needed. In a way, he felt odd abducting a child of fifteen from his bed, but the boy was a military leader. The enemy king knew the risks when he brought him along on this campaign. There was no room for pity and niceties.

Torches sputtered and hissed angrily. The dungeon air was wet and thick with gases, which made the flames burn green and blue. Smoke veiled like the finest gauze near the low, barrel-shaped ceiling. The corridors narrowed, steps turned into rough-hewn bulges. Slick with damp and wear, rusted hand-railings became lengths of slack and mold-eaten rope.

The imperial dungeons were disused wine cellars, but they had plenty of space for criminals. Vlad the Younger was their first occupant in a long time. Gerald had changed to functional leathers, and Amalia was wearing a tweed cape and cowl to keep the filth away. Her bodyguard Jerrica and half a dozen soldiers accompanied her to see the new guest.

No one knew the identity of the lone prisoner except the men who had carried out the mission and a few more of Luke’s secret guards. Gerald intended to keep it that way for now. He nodded at the two burly men guarding the cell. After this visit, he would ask Luke to double the detail.

Without a word, one of the men opened the cell door. Amalia and Gerald stepped in.

The boy was sitting on the cold, wet floor in total darkness, huddled to keep warm. His hair was disheveled, his face grubby and maybe even bruised. He was wearing a white nightshirt and breeches, hardly the attire of a royal heir.

He grimaced at the sudden flood of light. Then, he rose and lashed out. “What kind of treatment is this for a member of the royal family? I am Prince-Heir Vlad of Parus, and I demand to be accorded the proper accommodation befitting my class.”

Gerald recalled the stories about the Parusite weird sense of honor. If you were born noble, you got special privileges even when you were found butchering your worst enemy’s entire family. If they didn’t kill you outright, you were given food and clothes and entertainment, sort of what the hundreds of Eracian and Caytorean hostages enjoyed right now. If you were born in the gutters, your only option was death.

“In Athesia, class means nothing,” he told the boy.

“This is outrageous,” Vlad howled, seemingly undaunted by his miserable state.

“You will show proper respect when you address the empress of this realm,” Gerald warned. He realized simple logic was probably not going to work.

The boy grimaced. “So you’re the daughter of Adam the Godle—”

Gerald cuffed him. It wasn’t a strong blow, but it knocked him off his feet. “Manners, boy.”

Vlad was silent, rubbing his cheek. “Your Highness,” he rasped, “I protest my condition.”

Amalia took a moment to respond. “Your father seeks to destroy my nation. He’s led a war of destruction against Athesia, unprovoked. Do you honestly expect fair treatment while my people are murdered in their thousands by his soldiers?”

“My father is being too lenient. He hasn’t killed anyone,” Vlad whispered. “You are unbelievers.”

“You’re in this cell for your own safety,” she said, ignoring his outrage. Gerald had briefed her on the way down, but it was still amazing to see the boy’s indignant attitude. Either he was in total shock or absolutely unaware of his fate.

“My safety!” the boy cried.

“Every Athesian would gladly rip the heart from your chest. You are here so you will live to write to your father.” Gerald reached into a pouch cinched at the back of his belt and handed Vlad a small bundle. Inside, there was a piece of paper, folded in four, ink and stylus, ash shaker, a candle stub, some matches, a blob of red wax, and Vlad’s signet ring, also snatched from the Parusite camp.

“You will ask your father to withdraw all his forces from Athesia and go back to Parus. Once he has completed the withdrawal, as an act of good faith, you will be transferred into a more comfortable prison, aboveground. You will enjoy the comforts and perks befitting someone of your status. After ten years, you will be released back home. Meanwhile, I will work with your father on reparations and possibly even favorable trade deals.” Amalia smiled.

Vlad was silent for a moment. He threw the bundle on the floor. The inkpot clanked loudly, but did not shatter or leak. “I will not write and beg for my life! My father will destroy you.”

Amalia continued. “If you cooperate, I think we can work out a deal where your wife and your soon-to-be-born child will be brought to Roalas so you can be together. Would you not like to see your child grow? Life without a father can be awfully difficult.” The statement had a double meaning.

Vlad snarled, but he said nothing. Gerald hovered nearby, ready to strike him again, if needed. Vlad maintained his bravado for a few more breaths, but then he broke. A boy imprisoned in a dark cell, he collapsed back onto the floor.

“Besides, if you do not write the letter, we will start executing your father’s dukes and counts. One every day until you come around. Do you understand that, boy?”

Vlad’s eyes flickered between Gerald and the empress, trying to feel a scab of a lie. But the two faces watching him were smooth and cold. “You’re lying,” he tried weakly.

Gerald stepped closer, towering. “If we managed to abduct you right from under your father’s nose, why do you think we couldn’t have done the same with a few more Parusite nobles?”

Doubt was beginning to creep in, Gerald noted. First, the Night of Surprises, now this. Good. He was in no mood to beat a child into submission.
Not a child, a royal prince and war leader
, he corrected himself. He must never forget that.

“Don’t be a hero. This cell is too cold, too damp, too dark. I hear rats come out from cracks in the walls to nibble on toes and ears when you’re sleeping. Your pride won’t do much. We can forge the letter and stamp it with your seal, but if you’re your father’s son, you will write the letter.”

The prince-heir said nothing, but it was obvious he was broken. He seemed so utterly bent on honor and bravery, so Gerald only needed to convince him that being a cooperative hostage was the honorable and courageous thing to do. And it truly was.

“Someone will come later to collect the letter,” Amalia said. “Ask the guards for more light if you need it.” She turned and left.

Gerald remained a moment more, watching the Parusite carefully. There was a rusty sconce hammered into the wall, a later addition to the cells. Wine cellars would never tolerate open flame. Gerald placed his torch there, nodded, and left.

“I left my torch in there,” he told the guards. “Make sure he doesn’t use it as a club. I want him shuffled to a different cell every day, randomly.” If anyone tried to break into the prison, they would waste valuable time trying to find the hostage in the warren of cells.

Inside, Vlad sat on the floor, exhausted, cold, hurting. He picked up the stylus, but then he put it down. He curled into a ball, lay on his side, and started whimpering quietly. “Mommy,” was what he said, had anyone bothered to listen.