The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (76 page)

And what would he do then?

Gerald felt he was old enough to know the difference between love and infatuation. And the dangerous price of familiarity. When you spent a lot of time around someone, you grew accustomed to them; your relationship became a habit. It was so easy to mistake that experience for the fickle deception of love.

He must never forget the Night of Surprises. Amalia had been angry with him for volunteering back then. What would she do if they were truly in love? Would she ever let him go to certain death? Worse yet, would he listen to her, obey her?

The realm be damned
, a tiny voice chirped at the back of his mind.
You die alone, like the rest of them
. When the glaze of death clouded the eyes of soldiers choking on their own blood in the mud of the battlefield, all worldly worries narrowed down to one last plea, one last sentence, maybe the memory of a loved one. He tried to imagine his own demise. He was certain he would never have a thought about the realm. Maybe his mother, his father, maybe Amalia.

The comfort was dulling his senses, he realized. The tense months of bickering and arguing and tough decisions seemed forgotten for an instant. He looked back at the past year of their lives together. She had mostly been wroth or worried and sometimes both. Vulnerable, afraid, hesitant, Amalia had turned to him because he was there, not because he was anyone special. The precarious familiarity of their common destiny. It didn’t feel like love. But then, what did?

Love was an elusive thing, especially for someone who lived by the sword. But he knew he was not meant to spend his life shadowing his empress like a soulless drone. He was entitled to love, just like anyone else. And then, there was his duty, his obligation, the cruel understanding how fragile his life really was.

He knew, he just knew he was going to regret this. Somehow, none of that seemed important right now. Not yet.

“I don’t care, either,” he relented and kissed her again. She still did not resist.

CHAPTER 47

H
ory the Hammer was a simple man with a wooden hammer and a short wooden wedge. But he had become the most feared man in the Borei camp almost overnight.

The seemingly endless autumn rains had just ended one day. The next morning, the mercenaries woke to find their siege city frozen solid, the mud underneath sculpted like hard brown ice. At first, the men relished the chill, as it brought disease and filth to a sudden halt. But then, the deep cold settled in, and soldiers started cursing the weather once more.

Every morning, the camp would come awake to cries and screams of reckless men who had lost their fingers and toes and ears to frostbite. When their comrades found them, they would take them to Hory, who would chip off the black flesh with artistic precision.

Bart stood outside his tent, watching the pink dawn melt away, wrapped in a big ermine coat. He was no longer trying to fight the world. Not anymore. A light snow was flurrying, coating everything white and pristine. It was not as fiercely cold as before, but two weeks of knife-sharp icy winds had beaten everyone into humility. No one was taking any chances. Hory hadn’t had anyone on the butcher’s block for three days now.

The count rubbed his bearded cheeks and headed to see the king.

Muted growls greeted him as he walked, his feet silent on the fresh, snowy cover. Men called to him, inviting him to their fires, offering to share their food and hot drinks. Bart thanked them and moved on. He had grown quite a retinue in the past months. He liked the Borei. They liked him in turn.

He preferred to think he had just shaken off his cowardice one day, the day the cold started to matter once again. But it was most likely the slow disillusion of who he was and what he could do, month after month of both rejection and acceptance in this foreign land. Where the Parusite king spurned him at every opportunity, the mercenaries showed strange and wild compassion and let him into their circle of trust and intrigue and weird respect. He wasn’t sure how he had come to posses their regard. It was as if they had known his true value all along and just helped him realize it.

As he grew less caring and more brazen, his frustration and fear sluiced away. He had discovered that his noble title could pull a lot of weight when he pressed his shoulder into it. For someone who had always lived in the shadow of a displeased monarch and a sullen, scheming wife, the liberation was staggering.

He had become the daring negotiator he had always dreamed of being. He was his ruler’s champion. He was no longer afraid to express his emotions and follow his instincts. At last, he was free. In a way, this was what he had hoped for when he’d left Somar back in the spring. Only he had never really expected to see this day to ever come.

Someone offered him a cigarette. Bart took it, slapping the man on the back in appreciation. Whatever was rolled inside the thin paper was vile and stank like an old sock, but it filled him with energy.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a slim figure run after him. It was Constance.

Bart grimaced. He liked the young woman. She was petite, fragile, sweet, vulnerable, the complete opposite of his charming spouse. And yet, there was something mysterious and dangerous about her, enough to keep him keen and interested.

Constance liked being around him. Even too much. Sometimes, he had to deliberately avoid her so he could go about his business. He liked the attention, but there were moments when he needed to be alone, especially when he pulled the lines on the web of his informants and spies. Most of the time, though, her enthusiasm was genuine, her affection real and cozy and inviting, Still, Bart wasn’t a boy not to notice he was being ever so slightly manipulated.

He just did not care.

This morning, he wasn’t really looking forward to her company, though. He was going to have an appointment with the king. They would discuss the same old topic, the hostages. Bart would simply not relent. If not for his country, then for the sake of his own sheer stubbornness.

He knew that time was slipping between his fingers, like wet sand. He had done almost everything he could. Gained his freedom of movement and a small measure of grudging respect from the Parusite king, threatened economic and political and even military repercussions if Sergei harmed the Eracians in Roalas, tried to bully the city defenders. He was trying to balance everything at once, and it seemed to be working for now, although he feared most of it was due to luck and bad weather.

Commander Gerald and that old, sad-eyed man Theodore had made their vague, reserved promises. Perhaps, against all odds, they would be able to convince the empress to let go of her captives and win the desperately needed Eracian and Caytorean help. And the Parusite king was staying his hand, for now. Out of fear, reluctance, or just a lack of preparedness, Bart could not really say. His son was out there somewhere, rotting in a cell, maybe even dead.

One morning, Sergei’s patience or hope would run out. Now that the earth was frozen solid, transport had become easier. His war plans for the major attack had picked up their pace once more. There was no doubt the besiegers would storm the city walls. It would happen. In fact, Bart was surprised it had not happened yet.

Every morning, he woke with a fleeting spasm of panic, wondering whether the regiments of troops would march today. But since the royal kidnapping, it was quiet. It was as if everyone had bet on their best cards and were now holding their breath. The king was praying for some miracle; the Athesians were hoping for a bloodless standoff victory.

For an outsider, the solution seemed very simple. All Amalia needed to do was tuck her tail between her legs and compromise, trade her honor for support. No matter how much his monarch and the High Council of Trade wept and protested over the kidnappings, they did not want a bloody war, nor did they want a Parusite enclave burgeoning in their midst. Amalia must have known this. She must. Unless she were blind with pride, the mad girl could easily lead her nation to a victory. That, or a dreadful defeat.

Perhaps she hoped the Parusites would storm the city and accidentally cause the deaths of several hundred Eracian and Caytorean dignitaries. Perhaps she thought this would cause the other realms to declare war on Sergei. Perhaps something else entirely. He really hoped she had a plan. If not, this siege was going to spiral out of control.

Amidst all this crazy scheming, he envisioned himself as some kind of a savior, the master negotiator who prevented an all-out war. So he kept his mind sharp and made sure to whet it against the likes of Sergei. He didn’t really expect the king to ever give up, not with his boy locked up in Roalas. Still, he went into Sergei’s cabin, every other day, and talked to the king, arguing, negotiating.

The Parusites were hoping for a cordial, mutually beneficial relationship with their neighbors. That much was obvious. But like any proud nation, they would see ten thousand of their sons perish before they would deign shed a tear, just so they would not be accused of being softies. Bart thought this was sheer stupidity, but then, his ideas were usually disliked in court.

“Lord Bart,” Constance called prettily.

He ignored her, plowing on. But she persisted. The third time, he slowed down and turned around, feigning surprise.

“Lady Constance,” he offered in return. She was swaddled in thick layers of wool and pelts. He wasn’t fond of winters, but she always seemed cold.

She fell into step behind him. “I was wondering about what you told me last night.”

Bart grimaced. He had drunk and spoken too much. He remembered letting slip too many intimate details about his life back at the Barrin estate, about his life as a monarch’s less-favored adviser, his journey, his marriage. But the girl was easy to talk to. She listened well.

“What is your wife like?” Constance pressed.

The count took a deep breath of the cold air; it clawed at his throat. “She’s very calculating,” he said, mindful of his last night’s confessions.

“Do you miss her?”

Bart frowned. “Somewhat.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

Constance nodded to herself as if she were going over an internal checklist. It was a tiny gesture, but Bart had learned to read facial expressions and the little involuntary twitches long ago. Besides, spending hours gambling with the Borei had sharpened his skills—and emptied his pockets.

The girl definitely liked his company, but for all her forthcoming and friendliness, he still knew little to nothing of her. He had patched bits of truth from Ewan and her own halfmurmured stories. Her lineage was obvious, as was her fear of Councillor Doris. But the reason why she was following a strange, reserved boy who seemed oblivious to cold and pain was a mystery to him.

Deep down, he relished these little games of flirtation. He had never had his share of the expensive courtly intrigue like some of his friends. Rich counts were a commodity, and they sold quickly. His marriage had left him with a big portion of his growing up unexplored. In return, he had gained a wife as slick as an oiled eel. There had been a few months of excitement and wonder while they got to know each other, and since, Sonya had placed ambition and power before everything else. Bart had become a tool, and sometimes even a nuisance.

Constance was all he had never had—a woman who admired his status, his strength, his daring mission amidst the Parusites. He still kept his guard up, knowing all too well that all women liked titles and wealth, but the girl had a genuine, keen interest that slowly warmed his heart. Half a year back, he had been a punctual, passionless coward; today, he was a brazen fool learning to appreciate the gritty parts of life. He liked it a lot.

As he pressed toward the king’s improvised field keep, a knot of houses made of fresh timber still weeping sap, a watch-tower, and a wall of stakes, his progress slowed. Sentries and various Parusite officers knew him well by now, but it did not stop them from inquiring and checking the purpose of his visit. He suspected it was deliberate, on the king’s orders, a game they played, the two of them. Finally, he gained entrance to the unmarked hovel where Sergei kept his audience.

“You must wait here,” he told Constance. She did not argue.

A nameless guard stepped aside to let him through. He entered, squinting. The single room was hazy with smoke from a fire burning in the center of it, encircled in a ring of stones and a square metal grille to keep anyone from accidentally stepping into the flames. Everything else was covered in hides, the floor, the walls, even the window holes. It was an underwhelming setting for a king’s war council.

Neither the king, nor any of his dukes were there. Instead, he met Princess Sasha.

“Greetings, Count Barrin,” she said.

“Where is the king?” he asked and cursed his bluntness.

Sasha was kneeling, feeding a dog. The shaggy beast sat on its haunches, big ears drooped with content, waiting for his morsels. Every few moments, she reached behind her into a tin bowl and fished out a chunk of brown meat. Then, she let the dog eat from her hand. It was such a gentle ritual for such a hard woman.