The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (5 page)

“Jerrica, look what I have,” her maid said and removed a silk napkin from the top of the bundle.

Strawberries!
Despite her sour mood, Amalia managed to stretch her lips into a smile. “Let’s go inside.”

They ducked into their shared tent, a small, simple square of canvas that was Amalia’s world now, one of the thousands of little shelters housing Athesian refugees outside Pain Daye.

“Where did you get those?” Amalia asked.

Agatha huffed with excitement. “Pete gave them to me.”

Amalia said nothing. Pete. How things had changed. The first few weeks after their flight, Agatha would come back from his bed sobbing, bruised, and hurting. But as the days passed, the maid seemed to have taken the brutal edge from him and managed to tame him somewhat. A month later, she would no longer weep after he made love to her, no longer complain about his weight and violent streak. And then, the little gifts had started to trickle in, an extra loaf of bread, an extra crock of butter, or a wedge of cheese, oiled cloaks to protect Agatha and her friend from the rain. Pete was an officer, so he could order his soldiers to stand watch in front of their tent, if needed, or keep them safe, like he did during the journey to the mansion.

Pete was a good-looking man with a career, slowly learning to master his brute strength and coarse manners. Back in Roalas, Agatha could have only dreamed of having a captain for a prospective partner, maybe a husband one day. Out here, her luck had turned. She had almost been killed and raped in
the city, and she had evaded meeting a similar fate a dozen times since. She was a refugee at the mercy of a charismatic bastard, and now, she could begin to hope her dream might yet come true. She was happy in her small, simple way. Not one to regurgitate regrets, not one to drown in misery and think of the old mistakes and bitter choices over and over again, Agatha was a survivor, and she had accepted her new life, her new fate.

Amalia wished she could let her own guard down, even for a moment. But she knew the moment she did, she would break down. She needed her fury; she needed her anger to sustain her.

“You’re not eating?” Agatha said, biting into a big strawberry.

The maid would not use honorifics, not even when they were alone in their tent. Smart girl. And tough. Amalia would never have imagined her capable of killing someone, or ensnaring a captain, not when so many other women, better looking and higher born, had ended up as whores or servants.

Well, the two of them were servants of a sort, but no one bothered them. More than once, Pete had intervened to keep them from being molested by drunk soldiers and brutes. He handed out punches freely and had even pulled out his sword once. Amalia was grateful for that.

She picked a fruit from the bowl and tasted it. It was delicious. “Lovely.”

Agatha nodded enthusiastically. “I know. Pete said he will get us lamb tonight.”

Amalia blinked in appreciation, her mouth full. What would happen when Agatha decided to abandon her and go with her officer to a new and better life, free of the yoke of mercy and chance?

The empress would remain a lonely, unprotected washerwoman.

Not now
, she thought. She would eat the strawberries and enjoy them. She bit into another one and let her mind unravel. But what it did was focus on the past three months of her life and replay them in quick flashes.

After defeating the Oth Danesh, James had spent several weeks resting his army and the train of refugees near Berom. It had rained for almost ten days straight, but despite the foul weather, more troops and Athesian citizens flocked to his side. After Roalas had fallen, whatever army had survived the Parusite attack had either retreated to the north of the realm or fled into Caytor, seeking this new emperor. Among them, some seventeen thousand souls who had left the city during the fight.

Meanwhile, he had dispatched raiding parties all across the south of Caytor, to seek and destroy the last pockets of the pirate infestation. Then, when the weather cleared and the mud turned solid, he had marched them north, toward his provisional throne, to his wife.

His wife.

Amalia remembered the arrival at Pain Daye with brilliant detail. Her half brother had sent proclamations of his victory to every hamlet and town on their way so that people would come out and wave at him, a foreign hero and savior, now one of them. He made sure every councillor, low and high, would hear of his sacrifice.

But the culmination of his triumph was at the gates of Pain Daye, where a host of several thousand people had gathered to welcome him home. Amalia had watched with cold jealousy as hundreds of investors and bankers waved wreaths of fresh spring flowers at him; she had stared stupidly at the masses of
soldiers and common people, a Caytorean every one of them, cheer their Eracian champion.

Just like her father.

She hated James so much.

The celebration had lasted for almost a week. Even the refugees had been given little tokens of glory, food and blankets and a slice of roast. It was a powerful gesture, not lost on mothers with small children in their arms.

Privy to perks thanks to Agatha, Amalia had earned a place in the inner circle of the army town budding around the mansion, so she could witness much of what was happening. James would not let the troops and stragglers inside, so he made sure to come out to them, waving, mingling, shaking hands, hugging people and patting them gruffly on their backs, raising babies above his head, and exchanging playful blows with officers. He spent time touring the camp, checking on the wounded, asking women about their health and condition. Every day, he would petition a dozen people and then choose a dozen more for various duties at the mansion. For people without a roof above their heads and in shortage of food, having a job in the emperor’s service was a blessing. He did not pick out only beautiful women. He made sure to count in the old and ugly just as fairly.

Her half brother was a bastard, but he was a clever one.

Amalia suspected it was his wife’s doing.

Empress Rheanna, she was called, a banker from Eybalen. She was older than him, probably as much as ten years. Most people would find her ravishing, mature, and beautiful, but Amalia thought she had too many wrinkles on her face, and her rump was too wide, although she would have loved to have those breasts. Still, she could do nothing but admire her calm and easy manner, the way she handled the crowd of men around her. It was almost magical.

James was a boisterous, cocky bastard, but with Rheanna by his side, smiling, whispering, touching him gently with just the tips of her fingers, he transmuted into a statesman, noble and serene and calculated. She could practically see him growing wisdom, almost like a choke vine creeping up a wall. Amalia wished she had Rheanna’s skills. She might not have lost the war that way.

And in a simple act of marriage, he had wedded the richest and most powerful of Caytor to him, what she had tried to achieve by intimidation. She had grown her whole life by her father’s side, learning his wisdom, and yet this stranger, who had never met him, was faring so much better than her, putting to practice the magic of Dad’s charisma and unpredictable wit.

Amalia stuck her hand into the bowl and realized all the fruit was gone. Agatha smiled softly.
Now what?
Amalia thought. It was a relatively dull, quiet day. With the army dug in and the sky clear of rain clouds, the need for repairs and cleaning had dropped somewhat, leaving more time for idle gossip. Most women used the opportunity to mingle with the soldiers, just like her maid, but Amalia did not like the lack of activity. Bored men tended to cause trouble, and she preferred having her hands busy. It kept her from thinking too much about her failure.

Suddenly, she could not stand the little tent. She rose quickly and exited, squinting as the bright daylight assailed her. Very little time had passed, but her half brother was already busy charming someone else.

Delegations came and went all the time. The entire land of Caytor had something to share with Emperor James. Amalia wished she could hear the discussions and negotiations and partake in the politics, as well as learn where she might have erred and why the High Council loved this man so much.
But they just slithered into the estate, taking their secrets with them.

Men came in small and large processions, mostly traveling by carriage, with knots of soldiers riding in front and back for protection. These councillors and investors made sure to distinguish themselves from the rest of the crowd, so they proudly displayed banners and coats of arms. Lone horsemen sometimes arrived, grubby with road dirt, but these mostly rode into the army camp. Any time of day, you could glimpse a pigeon taking off from the estate, carrying an important message somewhere.

James was talking to some Athesian officer, nodding at the man’s words. At his side stood some Caytorean swell and an evil-looking man in the uniform of a legion commander. Well, the bastard was at least trying to emulate Athesian military style. It made for a less awkward separation between her own troops and the private soldiers of Caytorean birth.

She called the Fourth Legion the Loyalists. They had abandoned her, but then, Commander Nicholas presumed her dead. Amalia was glad he wasn’t around today. He was one of the few senior officers who could easily recognize her, having met her face-to-face on quite a few occasions. Common soldiers and small folk had seen the empress often enough, but never talked to her at arm’s length. Furthermore, most people saw what they wanted to see; Amalia was dead, and her short hair didn’t belong on an imperial head.

She ran a hand through her boyish cut, wondering if she should shorten it again. Her fingers touched the scar above her clipped right ear. Some imperial decoration right there. She was safe from most people, but she could not let even the tiniest chance ruin her disguise. Nicholas might just get inspired and see her ghost in the camp, and then, she would face a much bigger problem than filthy laundry and rude whistles.

Her half brother laughed heartily, throwing his head back. The legion commander at his side was frowning, wondering what might be so funny. The Caytorean lord was smoking a cigarette and sniggering. What a happy bunch.

A soldier walked into her vision. He was looking at her, his expression soft and hopeful. She ignored him. Agatha was watching her from the side, her lips pursed in concern. Amalia pretended not to notice.

“I will bring us some food,” Agatha said.

In the camp, individual cook fires were not allowed, in order to conserve fuel and supplies and reduce the risk of fire. You could get a hot meal at one of the communal kitchens. It meant lots of jostling and elbowing, and smelly people pressed together. Amalia hated the commotion, always felt exposed with so many unfamiliar faces around. Her people, her citizens. She may have waved at them during one of her processions, maybe even handed out loaves of bread to some. She really didn’t know. Then, there was the rank fear of being discovered, tiny but ever present, like a blister.

For all his proclaimed love for Athesia, James sure did not hurry leaving Pain Daye. She had no idea what he planned, but for now, the army was lodging outside the gates, and getting fatter, as it mended its wounds and patched torn clothes and dented armor and let trickles of fresh recruits and mercenaries beef up its numbers. The false emperor, the pretender, the usurper, her half brother and bastard commanded an entire Athesian legion, plus tens of thousands of men from local garrisons. Amalia was well aware of the two factions serving under his banner, mistrustful friends bound by a common cause. Not unlike the situation Father had faced back in his day.

The Athesian soldiers wanted revenge and often clamored for a quick march back to Roalas. Even she knew this was a
foolish sentiment. Even with the entire regiment at his disposal committed to battle, James did not have enough troops to fight King Sergei. Not yet, anyway.

The men grumbled that he was slow, but instead of ignoring their protest, he mingled and shook hands and asked them to trust him. He made his promises with simple words, reassuringly. Not a man raised in court, he knew how to speak to the common man.

Perhaps that was her problem, that she could not?

What did he plan on doing with the refugees? What would he decide? She burned to know. And she dreaded another march, another exhausting journey into uncertainty. What if his fat-arsed wife decided he should take care of Caytor’s interests first? What if he decided to send the refugees back home without escort, give them back to Sergei, and leave them at his mercy? What if the Athesians and Caytoreans broke their uneasy pact and suddenly turned against one another? How would that end?

All she knew, she would be a helpless bystander, and the best she could expect was to escape any conflict unscathed, unnoticed. She could not rely on Pete’s protection forever. What would happen if he marched to war and took Agatha with him? What if he chose to leave her behind? What then? Keep laundering all her life and hope not to get raped?

Amalia felt her lower lip quiver, and she bit it hard. Her chest wanted to heave, but she would not let it, turning her sigh into a long, slow hiss. No, she would be strong. She was Adam’s daughter, not some porcelain doll. She would survive this mess. But first, she would sort her mind out and forge a plan. Unlike the last time, it would not be a silly, emotional fiasco. She had to be hard and cold and brutal.

James moved on, his lapdogs trailing after him. The camp turned quiet and boring again. Amalia looked around her. No
one noticed her; no one cared about her. She was a nameless servant, a small human with small tasks that helped this monstrosity live and breathe. For now, that was all she was.

Amalia knew she could not be Jerrica the washerwoman forever. She had to change things. She had to fend for herself. She could not allow Agatha and Pete to defend her. She had to become the mistress of her fate.

She wished she had Gerald by her side. But she knew nothing of his fate. Did he live? Had he died in the attack? Had he been taken hostage by the Parusite king? Or killed? Maybe he was leading a rebellion? Maybe he was hiding somewhere? She could not imagine him hiding like a coward, like she did. But she had no news of her…commander, and she knew she must be strong on her own.