The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (75 page)

“We are checking,” the man said.

There was a fine line between leading a nation and being a puppet figure, Amalia thought. She had to admit Gerald and Luke knew more about war than she did, but it irked her to watch helplessly as they wove the future of Athesia.
“A wise ruler knows when to step down and let even wiser people take over,”
her father had always told her. She still found the notion hard to accept.

Lord Benedict watched the ruins with a deep frown on his face, his frame wrapped in an old fur cloak that radiated humble honesty. He looked displeased at being here. After she had pruned the heads off a handful of his colleagues, the relations between them had soured even further. The mayor believed this war was a giant mistake and displayed his feelings on every occasion. He failed to grasp the need for solidarity, and worse, his obligation to loyalty. The man was careful never to step over the thin line of becoming a traitor, but he was just as guilty. The burned houses were his work as much as that of saboteurs and haters.

Amalia did not really understand why her father had decided to keep the office of the city mayor occupied after his conquest. Well, he did try to tell her.
“I rule this nation, and I rule this city. But I cannot rule the nation
through
Roalas. I need someone to be my counterweight when it comes to simple daily politics, when it comes to merchants whining about their lost goods and women complaining about their daughters. I cannot be the judge for the people of Roalas in their city, because I would have to be a judge in all our cities
.”

It made sense, but she wondered how wise her father’s choice had been. Maybe in peacetime, but now, Lord Mayor Benedict was a serious obstacle to her rule. He radiated pessimism and borderline disobedience. She wanted to see his side and understand his motives, but all the man offered was sour cowardice.

Could she remove him? Vacate the office? Appoint someone else? Who would take care of taxes and mending roads and making sure the food was distributed fairly? She could not divert her energy to running a city. The entire nation needed her.

Even if her nation had been reduced to whatever survived within the curtain walls of Roalas.

Even so, Lord Benedict was just one of her many problems.

Meeting with the Eracian Count Bartholomew had shaken her. His message had been clear. The deterrence she had hoped to achieve through the abductions did not exist. Monarch Leopold was inclined to forgive the insult, it seemed, but he would not beg.

She had no idea what had become of her message sent during the night attack. It could be weeks or months before the reply arrived, if ever.

Meanwhile, she had to deal with treason, civil strife, the cold winter, scarcity of food, and all the other perils of this siege. She had to live with her disappointment in her closest allies, the lethal threat of the Parusite attack, and the nervous Eracian count, who could easily undo all she’d tried to achieve. Amalia had no control over him and could not know what kind of reports he might be sending his monarch in Somar. The Eracians seemed willing to negotiate, but this man Bart was an unpredictable factor in the broader scheme.

She felt aware of the inn proprietor, standing by the black skeleton of his business, staring at her with the big, gimlet eyes of a person with not a shred of illusion left in his soul. What could she possibly tell him that would console him? He had followed a brave man called Adam into this foreign land and built his life and raised his family. Now, his home and livelihood had been taken away from him. And Adam’s daughter only had empty words of consolation to offer.

It would not do.

Almost instinctively, Amalia raised her hand to scratch her scalp, but stopped herself. She had grown some hair, and hiding it underneath the wig was becoming cumbersome, so she was glad for the winter veils and shawls that allowed ladies to hide their pretty heads from the wind and hail. Not that her face was pretty anymore with that big scar.

She really had nothing. She was losing everything. She had lost her secret knowledge and weapon. She was losing her friends, her own confidence. The army was in tatters. The food supplies were low. The love her nation bore her was oozing away down the drains like old piss.

She did not know what to do.

Release the hostages
, the words reverberated inside her head. Everyone told her that. Was she being blind, or was everyone being so craven? She could not tell. Theodore had spent the early hours after dawn droning about her responsibilities. While Agatha painted her skin to hide the scar, the old man had lectured her on the prospect of reestablishing ties with the neighboring realms. It was the only way to defeat the Parusites.

She could not accept that.

She was going to break King Sergei. He would starve and freeze under the city walls. His men would lose thumbs and noses and ears to frost, and shit themselves to death with the flux. And when finally his men stormed the gates and failed, they would break and limp back to their country. After that, Eracia and Caytor would bend their gangrenous knees and finally accept Athesia as an equal for all generations to come. Power was forged in blood. Her father had proven that.

“Master Malcom will be repaid the worth of his establishment,” she stated simply.

Lord Benedict sighed. Signing another letter of credit for after the war was just a trifle nuisance to him. The proprietor said nothing. Paper with an imperial seal would not feed his children tonight. But Amalia could not allow gold to be distributed to common people. That would lead to even more trouble.

She had seen all she had to see. Touring the city was becoming ever more of a burden. Mostly the weather, but also the spirit of the people, weighing on her soul. When you tried to play the gallant role of a redeemer, you expected cheers and smiles to greet you back and warm you. You did not want grim faces and weeping children.

She was doing the best she could. Almost every day, she rode or walked through the city, handing out loaves of bread and baskets of eggs from the dwindling palace stores, talking to wives, inquiring about their sons and husbands standing watch at the battlements or recuperating in the First’s hospital. She tried to be pleasant and strong, to inspire and give hope. She visited shops and taverns, complimented the people on their courage and resolve. And when needed, she watched her headsmen punish criminals and traitors in public squares. Roalas was her city, her bastion. But all her efforts just did not seem enough.

They started back toward the palace, a slow procession. Her company of bodyguards spread about, screening her from danger, carefully eyeing every window, every rooftop, every alley. As the rhythm of hoofbeats and creaking wheels settled in her head, she turned her thoughts to Gerald, her maverick hero.

She was angry with him. But even as she felt her muscles tighten with ire, she knew her anger was nothing more than childish, peevish resentment. Gerald was as close a friend as she was ever likely to have. He wasn’t afraid of her. But the pain of his actions hurt deeply.

It wasn’t betrayal; it wasn’t mistrust. It was the feeling of pitiful self-worth as she slowly realized that the realm would go about without her just as well as it did now. Her commander—her general—was capable enough of running the city and fighting this siege without her opinions and whims. She stood in his way. And she hated her own incompetence.

A knot of people waved at her. Amalia almost forgot to wave back and smile, her mind reeling with questions and doubts and the gnawing sensation of despair. Gerald made her feel like a stupid girl.

The entourage entered the palace grounds in silence, only the hooves beating erratically against the wet cobbles. She ignored her servants as she headed toward her study, where she knew Gerald would be. She had left him there before leaving on her inspirational tour.

The ghost image of their first kiss floated before her eyes as she entered, tugging on her gloves with more force than necessary. Gerald was bent, writing. A stack of reports lay half curled at his side.

The room stank from candle smoke, but the musky smell of his masculinity wrapped around her. His smell reminded her of when she had been a little girl and would hide in her parents’ bedchamber, covering her head with Father’s blankets. The world would melt away, to be replaced by a warm, woolly cocoon of safety and carefree bliss. And in the soft cushion of protection, her father’s scent lingered, deep and loving.

Her mind emptied. The one thought that remained was the fatal realization she feared losing Gerald. In that one moment, panic gripped her, so intense that she gasped. She didn’t want to lose her small empire. She did not want to see her people starve or die or bend knee to the Parusite king. She dreaded the notion of having to admit defeat. But most of all, she felt selfish about losing Gerald.

He looked up, stretching. He was weary. “Amalia.”

She was silent for a long while, her thoughts colliding in a rush until they roared like rapids. “What am I doing wrong?”

The commander put the pen down and rose, wincing slightly as he forgot his injury. He stepped close and laid his hands on her shoulders. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but he could not. From what he feared to what he suspected to what what he wanted. And above all that, there was his duty.

“You are trying too hard,” he stated simply.

The room was cold, and her skin icy. “I must win this war,” she said quietly.

He smiled. “Then let me do that for you. Amalia, you’re wearing yourself down. You cannot do everything. That’s why you have me. That’s why you have Luke and Theo and Lord Benedict and all the rest of us, so we can assist you. And guide you.”

“My father defeated the Parusites in one night,” Amalia whispered.

“Your father was a brutal, ruthless man. You are a sweet girl.” From what Beno told him, Emperor Adam had been the cruelest son of a whore to walk the realms in the last three generations. He was unpredictable, deadly, grim, and just, sewn from emotions and experiences you could not earn growing at a court, surrounded by love and opulence. Amalia might be her father’s daughter, but her father’s world was unknown to her.

“I cannot be sweet if I must earn the respect of Eracia and Caytor. Sweetness won’t earn me peace or trade agreements.”

Gerald wondered how she was feeling; probably drowning in silly regret that no one could erase but her own determination. She had acted so powerful and wise when she locked in the hostages on the day of Emperor Adam’s ceremonial funeral. Now, with the cold autumn rains pounding against window-panes, the glory of that moment felt cheap, washed away.

“You must trust me,” he pleaded, gripping more strongly. He had to help her.

She stepped forward. “I trust you.” The unspoken
but
hung in the air between them. Her eyes wandered around the room, avoiding his gaze. They lingered on her diary. She had left it there, in plain sight.

Her face contorted with mortification. He almost chuckled. Amalia must be wondering if he may have opened it and read her intimate thoughts. But he would never do that.

He was looking at her intently. Amalia seemed so painfully aware of her peasant’s crop and the long scar, but he never saw them. He saw her worried, fatigued lines creased in a mix of wonder and something that looked like a plea. This time, he kissed her without being ordered.

Amalia did not resist, but he pulled away. He sobered instantly, straightened up.

“No,” she said, tugging on his coat. Her eyes were glazed. “No.”

“I am the commander of the City Guard. I’m sworn to protect you.”

Amalia touched his cheek. “You will protect me.”

Gerald was breathing slowly, trying to control his feelings. “This is just a dream. In real life, empresses do not marry their household guards. They marry princes and kings and rich nobles from foreign lands.”

“I don’t care about that. Never did.”

You fool, you selfish fool
, he thought. It would be so easy to neglect his duty and let this illusion sweep him away. But he knew better. When food ran out and the Parusites stormed the walls, there would be no time for kissing and cuddling.

But then, what was he going to do his whole life? Live in the shadow of a forbidden love? Let sorrow gnaw at his soul until he became a bitter old man? Always place the good of the realm before his own and feel proud about it? Maybe, but the taste of that was sharp against his tongue, like an old, cold tea.

It would be so easy, so natural, to ignore logic and follow his primal instincts. But come the morrow, or perhaps next week, or sometime next year, there would come the moment when the commander of the City Guard and the empress of Athesia would disagree. Not as a couple, but as the nation’s leaders.

What then?

He already felt bad enough that he was hiding Stephan’s letters and the responses from her, but she must not know about his desperate attempt to get the High Council to sway to her side. She would not understand his intentions and only feel slighted or betrayed. Which, in a way, was almost true.