The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (59 page)

Eventually, it was how she coped with current affairs that would determine what kind of an empress she truly was. Which was why she had decided to swallow her pride and help James.

“Brother,” she called, emphasizing the family relation.

He turned toward her, a frown on his face, and then his mien softened; it looked like he had trained hard to master his expressions.

“Yes, Amalia?” he said.

“Can we talk privately, Brother?”

James looked at the human wall shielding the two of them, at his officers, his clerks, his secretaries, the bodyguards, the odd city official accompanying him. “Yes, we can.”

“Sir, I must advise you to remain in our vicinity while outside,” one of the soldiers recited.

The emperor looked at Jarman. “I will take the Sirtai with me. The rest of you, stay behind.”

Amalia led him sideways, toward a small cluster of dwarf spruce, sagging with the weight of snow. Their boots crunched into the crusted, untouched snow. Jarman trailed at
a respectable distance, but he looked alert and acutely aware of everything happening around. Farther out, five men on horseback were circling their emperor and empress, crossbows ready.

They paused near the trees. James waited. He looked ill at ease.

“I want to thank you for sparing my life,” she said.

James seemed somewhat surprised by her statement, but he managed to mask the emotion well. “No matter.”

“I understand how difficult this must be for you.” She scooped a handful of snow from a branch. “And I am not sure if I would have done the same thing. I am not sure I would have been as courageous and tolerant as you. Perhaps you are a better person than me.”

The emperor was silent for a moment. He nodded at length, almost as if coming to peace with some inner conflict. “Two years ago, I was a deputy bailiff in a small town in Eracia. I had never believed that I might lead armies or control a nation. But then, over time, I sort of got used it. I accepted my role in this insane scheme of things. When you died, it felt easier for me. I had never really considered what would have happened if you’d won against the Parusites.”

Amalia smiled. She adjusted the shawl round her ears, one good ear, at least. “My whole life, I knew I would lead Athesia, just like my father. Imagine my surprise when you suddenly showed up.”

James’s face darkened briefly. His gaze wandered, locked on some deep thought. “Tell me one thing, Sister. Did you try to get me killed? Back then. Did you commission assassins to seek me out and murder me?”

She felt the fragile bond of kinship tearing. But she would not lie. “Yes, I did. I even wanted to hire Pum’be to go after
you, only I could not find any. So all I had was just common killers.”

“I never tried that,” he said, his voice sorrowful.

“I can only apologize,” Amalia offered, her chest tight.

“Can we really rule together?” James asked, and snorted with forced laughter.

She followed suit, but their braying-like sounds quickly died, became a moist silence. “Perhaps. If King Sergei and his sister Sasha can do it, so can we.”

“Maybe we will survive this upheaval if we stick together,” her brother added.

Amalia scooped more snow, let it bite her hand. “I hope our unity will keep the army loyal. The Athesian troops will surely stick around because they once served me, while your Caytorean troops have fought with you and respect you.”

“I hope so,” he said, less certain than she was. “Do you trust them?” He inclined his head toward Jarman, who was trying to appear politely interested in the white world.

Amalia stepped closer, keeping her voice down. “Brother, the threat of this White Witch is real. If he’s really coming against us, we must be prepared for him. He wields this weapon called the bloodstaff, the one that killed Rob…” She trailed off. “I once had it.”

His face paled. “How?”

“Father gave it to me. It was his. He got it from this Lord Erik.” She could not believe she was telling this, but her soul demanded release. Ever since the night Calemore intruded in her bedchamber and took her magical items away, she had felt exposed, vulnerable. Speaking of it did not lessen her terror, but she felt saner knowing someone else shared in this weird truth.

James was still looking skeptical, like he always did when magic was discussed, but now she saw a different angle to his
pained look. Not disbelief, more sort of suspicion and wonder, as if he was fighting his own share of weird truths.

Perhaps he has dabbled in magic, too
, Amalia wondered. If so, he did not speak of it, and she did not press him. He would open up when he was ready. For now, she was grateful they could talk and try to resolve the lethal rift that had separated them. Two strangers, yet bound by blood. They had started off wanting to kill one another, without ever having met, and now, they were trying to bridge the abyss of mistrust they had dug with their own hands. Well, she was trying to be the brave and sensible one and let him lead.

I did lose Athesia. It’s his turn to prove his worth
.

“But we must defeat the Red Caps first,” he insisted. “We cannot just let them destroy us.”

Deep down, Amalia wanted revenge. She wanted to see the Parusite armies defeated, forced into retreat back to their land. She wanted to savor the victory of the Athesian forces, to see national pride restored to her soldiers. Only then could she truly forgive herself.

But then, she was gambling. Princess Sasha against the White Witch of Naum. Both threats were very real, present. Her instinct told her to focus on Calemore and forget all about the nuisance farther south. Only her cowardice wanted her to choose the easier option.

“I will support your decision, Brother,” she told him.

If he did not like being forced to choose, he did not show it. Maybe he was mastering his role, becoming the loving, powerful emperor Father was. Maybe he
was
his true heir, and she was just a silly girl who once mistook petulance for toughness.

“Jarman urges me to make peace,” James complained, his voice dripping with desperation and resentment. She could see the inner struggle plain on his face. “How can we make peace
with them? Is that even possible? There’s this magical threat, this witch with his invincible weapon. I never thought I would have to worry about myths and legends.”

Amalia had many other matters to discuss with him, including the delicate matter of his wife Rheanna. But she knew she could not broach that topic yet.

“Yes, we will defeat the Red Caps first,” James declared.

Oh, he had decided a while ago, she thought, when he had made his troops kneel in the snow and raise their spears against the marching wall of women bent on killing them, only now he had accepted the burden of his decision. Amalia understood his dilemma completely. She admired his courage.

The only thing keeping her from being pleased with her half brother’s choice was the unbearable knowledge that whatever victory they scored against the Red Caps would be temporary. The real battle with Calemore could not be ignored. She did not fully understand the threat, she was not sure she ever would, but she knew that it was monumental, terrifying, larger than life.

She believed her father had understood the threat.

Which was why he had halted his offensive and resorted to peace.

Twenty years, a long time in our lives, but do they matter to someone like Calemore?

Jarman had it right. But James and she simply did not have a choice. They had to resolve the war against the Parusites one way or another. It seemed it would have to be through bloodshed.

They returned to their anxious bodyguards. Timothy, James’s gangly squire, was watching them carefully. Amalia noticed the blue-faced Sirtai had vanished from the crowd. Commander Xavier was there, his piggish eyes staring at her lewdly,
brazenly. She wondered what his Caytorean officers thought of her. Did they respect her? Or loathe her? Landon was there, too, looking extremely embarrassed, avoiding her eye.

Nearby, coming down the well-beaten road of stone and ice, a small train of carts was ferrying workers back to the city, faces smeared in grease, bodies bundled in thick wool. Coming from Ecol, a pair of oxen were dragging a new gate. It was too big and too ungainly to load onto a wagon, so they just dragged it, like a giant plow.

The young Sirtai stepped up to her. He smelled of garlic. “You must convince your brother.”

Amalia sighed. “We are facing a dire threat from the Parusites.”

Jarman’s lips almost touched her chipped ear. “Lucas and I can handle them.”

She felt a stab of vile satisfaction in her gullet. “You will obliterate them with magic?”

The wizard’s brows shot up. “No. We need them. We need every soul in this war against the White Witch. The whole of the realms must stand together against him. No, Lucas and I can infiltrate the Parusite camp easily and meet with Princess Sasha. We will then offer her a proposal.”

Amalia felt she would not like this. “What kind?”

Jarman braced himself. “That you become the subjects of the Parusite king.”

Her life at court had taught her to react with aloof disinterest to most things. But she felt her teeth gritting in cold rage. “What? That is preposterous!”

He made a placating gesture with his hand. “Please. Consider it, Your Highness. You must understand the urgency; you must understand the enormity of the threat. Do not mention this to your brother just yet. He will not accept this lightly.”

“And I will?” she snapped.

Jarman was looking at her curiously. “You have held the bloodstaff in your hands,” he said, but it was part question, part statement. “You
do
understand.”

“This is too much,” Amalia hissed.

The wizard inclined his head. “It is difficult, I know. But the only way to prevent more war is for Athesia to become the protectorate of the Crown in Sigurd. That’s the only way this war can be won. You must do it for the sake of your people and the realms. Put aside your own personal games. This is above any one man.”

“And why are you here? Why do you care about the realms?” she assailed him. “Since when does a Sirtai care about what happens here?”

His face turned blank. “My interests are not personal.”

Amalia smirked. “Aren’t they?” She began walking away from him, trying to contain her fury, and the tiny knot of satisfaction at having disturbed his peace of mind. Did she trust them, James had asked her. Not at all.

James was already busy conferring with Master Hector, his Caytorean sergeant. At his side stood a bevy of the city’s merchants, men whose businesses would be seized or pressed into the war effort, and they did not seem to like it.

He looked at her. She nodded at him.

In a strange twist of fate, the one man in this whole world she trusted now was her father’s bastard, a man who had wanted her dead only a few weeks earlier.

When they got back into Ecol, she would handle some other unfinished business. She would have to meet Agatha and ask her back into her service. If she wanted to survive this war, she needed her friends. Pete might not like it, but he was a soldier of the realm. He would understand.

CHAPTER 44

V
iceroy Bartholomew was eager to see olifaunts in action. Which was why he had joined the expedition party raid, despite the early hour and icy cold.

He was holding the looking glass in his gloved hands, the eyepiece smeared in grease so the frigid metal would not stick to his skin and pull his eyelid off. That would be most unfortunate, he knew, and it might hurt his budding career.

Duke-made-Monarch Vincent had died from poison, blissfully in his sleep, leaving the realm rudderless once again. Luckily for all parties involved, Bart had been chosen to represent the monarch while in exile, and that meant the authority defaulted to him. Until the surviving nobles sorted out the trees and branches and weeds of hierarchy, birthright, seniority, influence, and wealth, Bart was at the helm of Eracia, steering boldly.

The news had reached him only days ago, carried by a messenger with a severe cough in his lungs, who had braced the storms crossing through Athesia, the Safe Territories, and what still remained of southern Eracia. The man had taken almost three times as long to get there, but that could not be helped.

Bart only wished he had more knowledge of what was happening north of the nomad lines. He had heard rumors, but
any drunkard could spin a tale for a pint of warm winter ale. As far as stories went, there was an army coming to life, led by his uncle. That was good. Karsten was an able man when he put aside his bitterness.

He had also received news of the said Northern Army suffering defeats, and a strong body of tribesmen sneaking past the defenders, heading deeper inland, toward the Barrin estate. Less good. But there was nothing he could do except press on with his own campaign.

The morning attack would commence in one hour. It would be spearheaded by Junner’s men and two of his mighty beasts. Despite the fact the olifaunts were bred and trained for war, despite the fact the Borei had come to Eracia to practice their trade, the mahout had been really loath to put them to combat, especially in the cold; their fat skin protected them, but they were used to a warmer climate. Junner had sulked and fretted, as if someone had asked him to throw a baby into a pond full of snapper turtles.