The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (6 page)

As Amalia mustered her thin bravado, sane thoughts echoed in the back of her mind. She was no good with a knife. She was weak. She could never protect herself. She must not disdain the crumbs of mercy and good fortune she had. At least she ate every day, and no one groped her; no one molested her; no one beat her. She did not have to fight anyone, risk herself surviving every day. She should be content and glad for her luck.

After a brief fight, cowardice won. Once again. She wasn’t ready yet. Her mind swam with poison, unable to form coherent, clear ideas. She was too distracted, too bitter. She still had no plan. For now, all she could do was ogle her half brother and reflect upon her own mistakes and choices.

One day, she might be strong enough to change things. One day, she might boldly declare herself the rightful empress of the realm, and all her subjects would bow to her. One day, she might bring this arrogant bastard down. One day, she
might lead her nation back to Athesia and win the war against the Parusites, just as Father did.

But that was just a dream. One day. Not today.

Today, she was a washerwoman, one with a scarred face. Alone, unprotected.

Well, at least she had eaten some fresh strawberries. You had to indulge in small perks like that when you were a frightened, helpless refugee.

CHAPTER 4

J
ames headed back into the mansion. He walked into a lavish green-and-purple garden where a host of keepers were busy landscaping, trimming errant bushes, collecting fallen leaves off the grass, settling back wayward pebbles onto the twisting path.

Behind him, Rob walked, wearing a striped shirt, busy smoking. James himself was wearing a long, elegant silk tunic, which reached down to his thighs and felt like some sort of a manly skirt. But Rheanna reassured him this was the latest rave in Eybalen and that he looked a modern, stylish gentleman. Warlord Xavier trailed by, stopping to sniff flowers now and then.

They entered the mansion and climbed to the second floor, then marched into the southern wing, toward the war room. It was a serious affair, befitting his new status as an emperor bent on conquest. A whole lot of people waited for him there: Timothy, brushing a small green apple against his vest; Master Hector, glowering at the bunch of Athesian officers; Commander Nicholas, arguing excitedly over something on the map table with one of his subordinates.

James halted, closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed. He let his benevolent self dissipate and summoned his more
somber leader figure. This chamber was not about showing how kind and friendly he was; it was about making his small, budding army into a proper killing machine.

“Gentlemen,” he offered formally. They saluted back in a ragged ripple.

He cast a quick glance at Xavier. His urge for killing the man was wearing off. The warlord deserved to die, and his use was growing less daily now that James’s force had transformed from a herd of private bands into a uniform fighting body. Still, he stayed his hand and never ordered the man disposed of. He knew he should get rid of him; that was what you did with your butchers once they completed their grim task. But he just kept putting it off.

“Your Highness,” Commander Nicholas greeted eagerly.

James walked over and took a seat at the center of the table, where he could see everyone without craning his neck left and right. The table was oval shaped and had the map of the realms carved into its top, lacquered in different colors to mark rivers, forests, and hills. The borders were more sensibly marked in chalk, and lead figurines denoted armies.

“Any news?” he asked.

“One bird from Shurbalen,” Malik, an adjutant spoke. “Councillor Vareck promised three thousand men next month.”

James nodded and redid the calculations in his head, like he always did. His army had enough troops to form four full legions, plus some auxiliaries and mansion defense. He had divided and spread the old Athesian Fourth into two units, in order to mix them with Caytoreans, hoping to create some unity. The relations between his father’s people and his wife’s countrymen were still somewhat tense. There was too much mistrust there.

James had the honor of leading the First, much like his father had. Xavier commanded the Second, formed from the Wolves, Lynxes, and other smaller companies. His rank as the warlord meant only James bested him in authority. The Third belonged to Master Hector, the only sergeant to outrank majors and captains. No one seemed to object. Animal mascots and names were gone now.

James wondered about the subtle differences in the army structure among the realms, how Emperor Adam had decided to promote division colonels into full commanders, and call the divisions legions, a new name, a new nation. And then, granted himself the title of a general—nothing, contrary to expectations, fancy or meaningful. A simple statement of his strength. James wanted to do the same thing, to somehow put the imperial burden away when he donned armor. But he did not dare yet. Not until he’d won Athesia back. For now, he allowed Xavier to be the hallowed champion of the Athesian army in exile, the one to take the blame if needed. Besides, it kept the man busy.

He leaned forward in his chair. Four legions, with the fifth forming. He wondered what to do with the refugee volunteers and the mercenaries. Did they deserve their own legion?

“What about the front to the west?” James asked his next question.

Malik glanced briefly at a paper in front of him. “We know there’s an armed uprising in the north of Athesia. Some of the locals, plus some troops that fled Roalas. Formed a free regiment, fighting for the realm. They don’t even know about Amalia—or care. Or about you, sir.”

James felt his face scrunch into a grimace. His half sister, Amalia, an unfinished affair. She was dead, or most likely dead. He didn’t feel any sadness; there was just deep curiosity
in his heart. He wanted to have known her, even as an enemy. He wondered which of the rumors were really true. Had she tried to assassinate him? Befriend him? Had she even spared him a second thought? Would they have gotten along? Cooperated?

“And there’s a conflicting report,” Malik plowed on, “of a renegade army, formed of criminals and defectors, terrorizing the land. Sort of like the Oth Danesh over here, sir. And they fight for whoever pays them, it seems. Take money, pillage, sometimes just take the money and run. They got financing from Eracia, and even one Caytorean lord, it seems. To his credit, King Sergei wants them crushed.”

No news, then
, James thought. He had heard bits and pieces of these same reports many times before, always with a slightly different tune. Almost like the snakes and bubble shapes you saw when you closed your eyes but then left a tiny, tiny slit, and then you saw things floating in the web of your eyelashes. He hated uncertainty. He hated chaos.

The Parusite ruler was busy pacifying his new duchy, it seemed. And while most people would assume pacifying meant staking people to trees, this king was being quiet and merciful about his methods. He didn’t seem bent on punishing the common folk for rallying under someone else’s banner. He needed them to till his fields and pay taxes. Very thoughtful, James thought. Even the city refugees were considering moving back, now that they knew they would not be beheaded for fleeing Roalas in the heat of the battle. The only thing he could promise them was to be a better emperor than Sergei was a king, because if he lost the Athesian people to this invader, his entire campaign would crumble.

He was no longer worried about Caytorean lords and ladies trying to kill him.

He worried about his own people giving up on him and favoring some foreign king.

His father had never faced the threat of being scorned and rejected.

James rubbed his chin, thinking. It was summer, a good season to march and fight. But he didn’t have enough forces to go against Roalas, so he had to weigh other options. And while he felt quite comfortable in Pain Daye, he never forgot his stay was temporary here. He was still a friendly intruder on Caytorean land. His wife could charm the High Council only so much before they lost faith in him. His string of victories against the Oth Danesh had bought him a sailcloth full of breathing space, but it would eventually run out. And then, they would expect him to proceed with his mission, the one they had been sponsoring for the past year: recapturing Athesia and making good on his promise of eternal alliance.

Once he did capture Roalas, what would he do then? Live there? Take Rheanna with him? Would she abandon Eybalen, all her businesses, for his sake? Or delegate it to someone else? Her loyalty was spotless, and she had not left Pain Daye since meeting him, but still, he was slightly worried. Strange, how he could not quite decipher her thoughts. His wife was still a mystery to him. It excited him, but also scared him.

For a moment, he wished he had Nigella to tell him future truths, but he had banished that woman. And for the better. He could not allow her to bewitch him again and demand his seed. He would not have other women anymore. Just Rheanna.

James rose, walked around the table, and picked up one of the reports. He read it absent-mindedly, as if seeking for clues that would help him decide what to do next. He heard the door click open, but kept his eyes pasted on the thin document.
Then, he heard fabric rustle. A soft, cold hand slipped round his waist. He jumped, hairs on his neck standing.

“You are frisky today!” Rheanna said and leaned over, kissing his ear.

He savored her smell for a moment, then remembered himself. “What are you doing here?”

Rheanna smiled patiently. “Just had a word with Councillor Sebastian. He’s secured a deal on steel manufacturing, with favorable return. Most of it will be going to Monard, to help rebuild the damage caused by the pirates.”

James nodded. Still, he felt peevish. He didn’t like when she discussed business in front of his officers. “That’s good, I guess.”

“What have you decided?” she asked, looking at the map as if it were some strange, wondrous object.

He wasn’t fooled by that look; her eyes were shrewd, deep. “Nothing yet.”

“What about the refugees? You can resettle them in the south.”

“No. They are Athesians. They will be going back to their land.”
After I conquer it
, he thought.

“They are not a pretty sight for people visiting Pain Daye. Kind of like a food stain on an immaculate dress,” she spoke, her tone beautiful, luring. “You might want to move them away, maybe to Goden at least.”

And lose my subjects?
he thought, almost resentfully. He feared letting them out of his grip, as if the only thing that kept their patriotism burning was their presence. But more than that, he feared letting Athesians mingle with Caytoreans. He wasn’t quite sure how that would unravel, or worse, how a possible conflict between civilians might impact his young army. The last thing he needed was the Fourth Legion coming to
blows with their local friends. He might be their emperor, but only because another had died. He did not forget his unlucky inheritance.

“Can I suggest something?” she persisted.

James rolled his eyes, trying to act tough in front of his men. He thought Master Hector was grinning. “Please.”

Rheanna leaned onto the table, her bosom swaying, her lush curves rippling under tight satin. He felt a wave of her femininity spread through the room. Men reacted to it subconsciously, their jawlines dropping a hair lower, their nostrils tightening, their stance growing more rigid, alert. Rheanna commanded the war room, and all she had done was put her immaculately manicured hand on the lacquered tabletop.

“The west front is terribly exposed,” she said.

Front terribly exposed
, he mused. James thought she meant Athesia, but her finger slid farther, toward Eracia. He imagined that finger sliding up his chest.

“Here.” She tapped in the general vicinity of Paroth. “Most of the Eracian army is there, wondering what they ought to do now that their monarch has lost his head. But you have the nomads pushing all the way to the border. Who knows what they might decide to do next? Invade the unprotected northern Athesia?”

“Distant land, distant problems,” Xavier muttered, cleaning his fingernails.

James shot an angry glance at the warlord, but the butcher did not seem to notice. The emperor frowned, thinking. As always, his wife was thinking three steps ahead. The Eracians were now a frightened bunch, their land cut in two. The Eracian Southern Army was locked between their savage enemies, the Parusite invaders, the untrustworthy Athesian neighbors, and the Safe Territories, lawless and too full of armed men who
most likely answered to the throne in Sigurd. The Northern and Western Armies had suddenly found themselves with their back exposed, unprepared.

The east was held, for now, in the hands of the few surviving nobles and their troops. James looked up. His eyes fell on the tiny chip of paint that stood for Windpoint, a cubit away from the Barrin county.

His mother was there.

He pushed his feelings deep into his stomach, trying to think rationally. He was an Eracian, and he should feel anger at having the Kataji roaming in Somar. But his stay at Pain Daye had changed the way he perceived lands and people. They were no longer an emotional weight, but a possession. Something to own, something to use.