The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (86 page)

Councillor Stephan had disappointed him. The Caytoreans were keeping quiet, too, biding their time, weighing their options. Gerald did not envy them. But it didn’t make his life any easier. But for the first time in his service as the commander of the City Guard, he cared; he personally cared. He probably didn’t want to admit it to himself, but this was no longer just a war.

Amalia was there, too.

And now, everything had changed. The soldierly fatalism was replaced with a dire need to live, to outlast this tragedy, to spit in fate’s teeth and laugh. Affection bred fear, he realized, a deep, paralyzing fear. He thought he could understand the enormity of duty someone like the late emperor had deliberated. He could understand why he would halt his bloodthirsty machine to a stop and embrace peace. Hope was a red-hot blister in his stomach, stabbing like a common knave.

He wondered if it were not too late, if all of Theo’s and Luke’s and his attempts to convince Amalia were just footnotes that would be written in a book of history one day. If they got their place in a book at all. Would they tell of a brave commander who did his best, or a fool who wasn’t strong enough to slap his empress and tell her what to do?

The attack had reminded him how fragile their position really was. They had managed to score some brilliant points against the Parusites, and they had the king’s son in custody, but these heroics would not stop hunger or disease or hatred. And they just didn’t have the strength to break the siege. Every day, his fighters got better and sharper. The file of horror sanded their souls day by day, making them harder and rougher. No longer a bunch of amateurs and novices, they had seen and tasted blood. But it just wasn’t enough.

At the moment, Gerald’s biggest hope was Count Bartholomew. But could the man intervene and stop the fighting? Would he?

He realized he was angry. He rose from the chair and almost stumbled. Amalia caught him in her arms.

“This is all wrong,” she whispered.

“Maybe. But I don’t care,” he rasped.

She kissed him passionately, hugging him close. Her grip was frantic, almost fearful.

He tore at his jerkin, freeing the muddy buttons. His shoulders screamed when he let it drop off, lances of pain coursing through his stiff muscles. He had not fought, not even drawn his sword, but he had raced across the gravel-strewn walkways, and leaned over parapets, and climbed into towers, and shouted at his men. No less exhausting than killing.

Amalia let go, breathing deeply. “I want to make love to you.”

Gerald did not resist as she removed his two woolen shirts, sticky with sweat. His lips wanted to phrase the sentence
I love you
, but he kept it unsaid. He was afraid of the consequences. What would his duty be when the sun rose? Did he know what love was, anyway? Was there feeling enough left in him after all the suffering he had seen?

Hope…He wanted to live. But he knew that nothing mattered now, nothing but Amalia. “Life is too short, too precious. We cannot waste it.” He could not let doubt and duty govern his soul anymore. He could not put aside his desires any longer. He would fight Monarch Leopold if he came to take Amalia from him. He would defeat the High Council and King Sergei for her. But most of all, he wanted to experience her affection, her love. Beyond the dark weight of cold, bleak loyalty and obligation that had steered him through life, selfishness was budding.

He liked it.

There would be time for regret. There would be time for panic. He would plan their future later. Much later. But now, all that mattered was Amalia.

She undressed. She let her gown fall. Somewhat hesitantly, she removed her wig and tossed it aside. Naked, she stood before him, slim, frail, insecure. “Have you ever made love to a woman before?”

Gerald shrugged. Soldiers and whores went well together.

Amalia smiled weakly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Gerald supported the small of her back and lowered her to the floor.

“My leg,” she said and then managed to get it from under her. They both giggled. And kissed again.

Gerald wondered what she felt when his filthy whiskers touched her neck, her breasts, her belly. He wondered what he looked like, craning over her, smelling of leather and oil and soot, with scars and bruises from armor padding and straps.

Amalia yelped when he entered her. Her eyes watered. Then, quickly, she nodded. Another gasp, and she bit her lip. But her arms were wrapped around him fiercely.

The world swam before his eyes, part total exhaustion, part ecstasy, love, and the surreal lighting of early dawn blending into one. He could feel his knees chafing against the rough brush of the carpet. He could feel the pain in his back, the heat of Amalia’s body pulsating beneath him. She was shuddering, making small noises. Her eyes were closed, tears rolling down the side of her face, over that scar and her ear. Gerald closed his own eyes and let his mind rest.

Some time later, they lay on the ground, covered in bits of clothing, staring at the morning sky turn slate gray. Gerald was idly caressing her forearm with his thumb, thinking, wondering. He was past exhaustion. Dwarf fingers of pain stabbed behind his eyes into the center of his skull, but he could not let sleep take him. He did not want to sleep. He wanted to treasure this one moment.

“I am a fool, aren’t I?” Amalia whispered. There was no need to whisper, but it seemed fitting.

Gerald snorted softly. “No, not a fool. Just not a butcher.”

Amalia propped herself on one elbow. “What have I done?”

The commander sighed. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is what you do now. There’s still time. We can undo the damage. We can stop the suffering.”

“How?” she pleaded. “Help me. I’m lost.”

He hugged her. His thoughts had never been calmer, clearer. It was as if a film of black filth had been blasted away from his soul. In books, heroes always made the ultimate sacrifice, always gave their lives for their country or their lord or their god. Maybe so. But books probably failed to mention the doubt, the terrible duty, the apathy. War and terror had always been mankind’s bread and butter, but once you got used to them, once you grew indifferent to the sight of death, your own life became as meaningless.

They could fight to keep Athesia proud. They could drag out the bloodshed until the last one of them was left standing. They could make the ultimate sacrifice. Or they could make sure that Athesia survived, perhaps slightly less dignified, perhaps scorned or even pissed upon, but the nation would live and grow. Maybe that was the secret of Adam’s success. Maybe that was all it was.

And it wasn’t because you held duty dearer than your own life. That was nonsense, he realized now. You found someone or something you loved, and you made them the focus of it all. And you fought for them, and all the rest became secondary. Sending people to die was easy for men. Which is why so few women commanded soldiers to their deaths. And those few who did rarely had sons. How could a mother send her child to die and feel proud about it? Not likely.

Gerald wanted an opportunity to get to know Amalia better, as a friend, as a lover. He wanted to believe they had a future together. And if that meant shaking the foundations of the empire, so be it. Between pride and glory, life was better.

“We need to rest,” he said. “But after we wake up, we will amend things. First, you must free those hostages. Then, we must send a messenger into the Parusite camp and get Count Bartholomew to return to the city and negotiate with us.” He said nothing about Monarch Leopold. He would worry about that later.

Amalia nodded weakly. “All right.”

It was all so clear to Gerald now. He was flying. There would be time for political intrigue and scheming, but first, they had to remove the death lock from around their throats. Roalas had to survive. Adam had wielded his dreadful weapons only once, but then, he had turned to peace and cunning to keep his dream prosperous for two decades. It took courage, but it was easier when you knew the price of failure.

He could earn new medals and see thousands more of both Athesian and Parusite blood commemorated to the dust of history. He could be the gallant savior of the realm. Or he could be the craven and wise general who put his sword down and let reason win over. He had tried his luck with killing. He wanted to try love for a change.

“The Parusite king will not be easily swayed. But we’ve bested him on all occasions so far. We’ve raided his camp. We kidnapped his son. We repelled his attack. He must be rather worried about the prospect of his war. And if Eracia and Caytor can come to terms with your rule, he will be forced to abandon his campaign. And then, we can negotiate peace.”

Amalia nodded again. She turned around and kissed him on the brow. “I trust you.”

He stroked her hair. He had hidden some things from her, in the name of his care and love. He would have to tell her someday, but not today. “It’s fine. We’ll do it together.”

“What about us?” she asked suddenly.

Gerald smiled. “What about us?”

Amalia leaned against his chest. “What will everyone say?”

Gerald stared at the ceiling. “Does it matter? Did your father care what they thought about him?”

She chortled. “No, he did not. He was trying to teach me all these things, but all I could think of was how I wanted everyone to respect me and fear me. I thought that if I frowned hard enough, the bows would come on their own. I was such a foolish, stubborn girl.”

He pinched her nose. “You still are.” The cloud of reality flashed across his soul. In this little bubble of sweet insanity, they were safe and protected and warm, but soon, they would have to face the hunger and civil war and treason and death.

“I should have listened to my mother,” Amalia admitted, her mood swinging suddenly.

“It’s fine. Forget it now. Let’s sleep some. And then, we will make this world a better place.”

She craned her neck. “You promise?”

Gerald grinned brightly. “I do.”

CHAPTER 55

“T
his one, a real beauty, catches the eye, doesn’t it?” Master Angus said and showed the little mushroom to James. It was red with white spots, the common toadstool. Even small children knew they were dangerous.

James nodded eagerly.

“But it’s mostly harmless. It’s poisonous, but one will not kill an adult. And if you boil it and wash away the water, you can eat them.” The master ceremoniously tossed the mushroom away. Then, he donned a black glove and reached into another jar. Inside, there was a dried greenish-white thing. “The death cap,” he said. “Unassuming, lethal. Even touching them can be tricky.” Done with his demonstration, he placed the shriveled mushroom back into the glass vessel, lidded it, and then dipped the glove in a bowl of vinegar.

James leaned back, fascinated. The art of poisoning was one of the lesser-known skills that his history teacher brandished, but now that James was unofficially the most powerful man in Caytor, it was time to expose him to the secret knowledge of toxins.

Well, the deputy sheriff from Windpoint knew about poisons, but the breadth of his knowledge mostly came down to what you shouldn’t eat. Using herb extracts and oils to kill people was a whole new art.

Master Angus and he still compared notes on popular writings by famous scholars, and every time, the older man had something to say that James had not considered. James also kept trying to stammer out the forgotten dialects of the Continental, wondering when, if ever, he might put them to any good use.

He kept wasting precious hours reading books that were as exciting as watching cows eat. Now and then, they threw up an interesting fact or idea. In between the dutiful studies, there were lessons on assassination and powders and how innocent chemicals could be blended into deathly potions and pastes. After swordplay and wood tracking, this was most fun.

Rheanna was not with him that morning. She was entertaining dignitaries fresh arrived from Eybalen and Shurbalen, despite the bad weather and the dire threat of banditry from the roaming pirate hordes. Naturally, the silent statement of their marriage had sent its shock waves across the realm. And now, the rich people were concerned and needed explanations and assurances. His wife was more than glad to provide them, and she did so with the style and grace and charm that he would never master.

Having disposed of both his sponsors and rivals, he had found himself at the forefront of political and economical intrigue. James had believed he had become adept at lying and manipulating, but his forays so far had been just a sampling of the chaos that boiled among the higher circles of the Caytorean society. In a way, Otis, Melville, and dozens of their cronies had sheltered him from much of the noise that now echoed in the nearby chamber, where Rheanna was fighting his battles with smiles and vague promises of future wealth, wielding nothing but a pen and her overpowering allure.

His sponsors had also kept him in the dark. No longer. He was now a witness to all that Caytor could give him, or wanted to give him. He was privy to their fears and terrors and suspicions. They danced a perilous dance, naked feet moving across thin ice. Was he their savior? Was he a distraction? Was he a friend, a staunch ally, someone they could trust? Was he Adam’s son, poised to strike farther east and grab yet more lands?