The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (36 page)

Sonya touched her shoulder. “Of course, she will be taken care of.” Oh yes. All Kataji bastards would be taken care of.
You need years and years of practice before you can attempt to subdue someone like me, bitch
.

Richelle nodded. “Thank you, my lady.”

Improper. Sonya withdrew her hand. She almost felt relief. She had expected the little whore to concoct a masterful scheme that would leave Sonya indebted till her death. Not this pitiful begging. She was almost disappointed.

Then, she saw the woman’s face change. There was fresh smugness there. Sonya realized it wasn’t quite over yet.

“My lady, if the faithful and loyal subjects do not get their reward after the war is concluded, there might be some difficulties.”

Oh, there it was; there it was, the clout.

“Certain other truths might get exposed.”

Sonya wondered what it could be. What? Deaths she had plotted? Affairs with other nobles and rich merchants? What else?

It looked as if Richelle could read her mind. Her eyes dropped down to Sonya’s belly, then up again. Sonya tried not to swallow. How could she know? She could not. The baroness was just bluffing. Hinting. Sonya made a perplexed face, hoping it looked genuine enough.

“There is no reason for that to happen.”

Richelle reached up with her own hand and touched a cold finger to Sonya’s cheek, a brazen, disrespectful gesture. “My lady.” She walked back to her bastard child as if nothing had happened.

Sonya remained standing, realized she was not acting naturally, making other women notice her, so she stepped back toward the windows and stared out at the destruction and smoke.

She had underestimated these whores. Women were usually frightful and insecure, but they were not stupid. They paid attention to little details, saw the gaps and inconsistency in truths and facts, figured out the missing parts on their own. Sometimes, their emotions took them down wild, stray paths, but not when it came to basic feminine affairs. Then, they could be sharper than a well-honed sword.

For the past year and a half, she had copulated with Pacmad. No one could doubt the potency of his seed, because he had managed to sire dozens of little bastards in that time. Meanwhile, Sonya’s belly remained flat, except for the lazy fat of her captivity she just couldn’t get rid of. It did not take a master of coin to figure out the problem. Pacmad’s tiny cock worked, all right. Sonya’s womb did not.

In her defense, she could claim rape usually didn’t get the best results, and many women mistreated that way did not conceive. In the palace, most of the captives were younger women, and slowly, Pacmad was making them pregnant with his nomad bastards. However, there wasn’t any lady her age without a child.

The general had no care for older, ugly women, so he had mostly left them alone. In a way, their ugliness had spared them and their children, leaving only the virile and beautiful to suffer the humiliation, the beatings, the rapes. Them—and Sonya.

In Caytor, it was quite customary for rich women to pursue their careers rather than motherhood. But in Eracia, they all still believed women should whelp babies to strengthen families and secure the wealth. Her own lack of offspring had been a constant rumor at court for many years now, but then,
she had always had Bart. People would snigger behind both their backs but blame him. Now, there was no more doubt left. Men might ignore it. Not the ladies, though.

I’m not old, but I am definitely not young anymore
, she thought, bitterness nipping at her tongue. She glanced at the roomful of whores. She was older than everyone present. She was the only married woman without a child in this lot, excluding Pacmad’s bastards, the only one who had run out of excuses for not being a proud mother still.

Not evidence, but enough to start a powerful, lethal rumor.

She glanced back. Richelle was holding her girl, unconcerned, silent, smug. Bitch. Sonya almost admired her audacity, but the time for mercy and pleasantries was over. She would not make the same mistake again. Ever.

Well, she had always feared Pacmad would find out about her. Now, she had much bigger worries. What would happen if the court learned she was barren? Bart could legally disown her then. She could be robbed of her status as the queen. That would be a disaster. After all she had done for her nation.

Smile, you bitch, smile. You will get what you deserve. A large share, even
.

She looked out of the window again, waiting for her husband to free her.

CHAPTER 25

P
eace. It was right there in front of her.

Amalia sat on a palfrey, adorned with silver trappings. Her would-be court flanked her left and right, all of them on foot to emphasize her status. Master Hector was there, leathery, chewy, but clean and with a new uniform. Jarman and Lucas. She was glad for the blue-faced wizard. He was an impressive addition to her retinue. Xavier was standing right next to her. All of the Athesian legions’ commanders shared her side.

There were more soldiers behind her, including three bannermen, half a dozen officers, and Agatha, who had insisted on standing with her empress, a brave but painful sacrifice on her behalf. If all went well, her maid would give birth about a month after the Autumn Festival.

On the opposite side of the field, the Parusite delegation waited. No horses there. Princess Sasha was wearing a maroon leather uniform, trousers, sword, and all, and she stood on her own feet, like her small, humble retinue of fighters.

Victors did not need pedestals, it seemed.

“Everything is in order,” Toby, her new head of the imperial guard, said.

“Then there’s no point waiting any longer. Proceed.” She spurred the palfrey forward.

The Parusites took the hint and moved, too. Halfway between the two parties, there was an awning, stretched between four stout poles, with a single large table placed in the shadow of the canvas. Half a dozen clerks were waiting with ledgers and drinks. A circle of soldiers of both nationalities guarded the perimeter.

Amalia did not dare look behind her. Ecol was there, with its thousands of people, soldiers and refugees. The northernmost town of her shrinking empire. The last town really ever since Bassac had been evacuated.

The White Witch and his vast army had finally arrived.

The threat of their attack was immense. So huge that few people could really comprehend it. Even she did not dare contemplate the facts too deeply, lest they shatter her resolve utterly. A host of hundreds of thousands was gathering just a week away, getting bigger by the day, with an endless stream of new troops arriving every sunset. The Athesian scouts had watched from a safe distance, lips moving until they lost count, confused, dazed. No one really understood what would happen now.

Ecol had become her final bastion, a blister of defiance on the map of her failures. She could keep fighting and losing, or she could do the sensible thing: throw away her honor and bend knee. Make peace.

At least I have not been completely defeated this time
, she thought. Her fight against the Red Caps had ended in a bloody draw. She had managed that much at least, enough to save face. Or rather, her half brother had. She could not claim James’s Last Stand as her own victory.

Free Athesia, the parts still under her control were coming apart, savaged like a lamb attacked by a pack of wolves. Bands of brigands were prowling the countryside, preying on travelers
and convoys and the displaced small folk. But any man sent to fight the local insurgence meant one less soldier to face the Naum threat.

She just had to choose.

Amalia noticed the princess was limping, and yet she had chosen to walk. So the rumors about her injury were true. She had to admire the king’s sister. She was everything Amalia was not. Tough, brave, a real fighter. She would not cry when someone intruded in her bedroom; she would try to kill the trespasser.

This meeting was just a necessary formality, she knew, a ceremony that had to be seen and remembered. The officials had spent the last few days drafting the final agreement, with its little details. There would be no persecution of the Athesian defenders, no retribution. In return, Amalia would swear fealty to King Sergei and ask him to protect her and her subjects. Athesia would become a vassal state. Religion and taxes, those were the two things the Parusites would not compromise on. Other than that, they were surprisingly benign with their terms.

Finally, Amalia would lose her title. She would become just the governess of Athesia.

Amalia wasn’t really sure why a man whose father had been killed by
her
father would be so kind.

The presence of that massive Naum force must be the reason, she figured.

She did not know what Lucas and Jarman had done with their magic, but they might have also sneaked into the Parusite camp and talked to Princess Sasha. They may have tried to convince her with the same stories they had used with James and her. Perhaps it had worked. Amalia could not think of any other reason why King Sergei would accept peace.

Maybe he is a bigger man than I thought
, she wondered.
Maybe he is not obsessed with respect
. A true king would sacrifice everything for his nation. So would an empress. Only no one had taught her that lesson in Roalas, two years back. Well, they had tried, and she had been blind.

The Athesian delegation arrived first. Amalia dismounted, extremely self-conscious about gliding off the saddle elegantly. If she tripped and fell, she would embarrass her entire nation. Servants rushed forward to offer her drinks. One of the ladies was holding a brush to dust her skirt. Amalia waved them away. She took a deep breath and focused on the Parusite princess.

Sasha hobbled under the awning a few moments later, face hard, serious, battle worn. This woman had seen death and never once cried, Amalia knew. This woman was her superior.

“Empress Amalia of Athesia,” Major Gabe of the Fourth Legion announced. He had been chosen to lead the proceedings because of his impressive voice and since he had a passing knowledge of law and commerce. His father had been a notable trader. “Princess Sasha, the commander of the Red Caps, sister to His Royal Highness King Sergei of Parus, speaking in his name.”

No fancy titles on either side, Amalia noted.

“Please be seated,” the major said, pointing at the two chairs on the opposite ends of the table.

Sasha sat down first, grimacing at her injury. Amalia waited, as protocol dictated, and then followed suit, feeling clumsy in her dress. She wished she could wear snug trousers like the princess. She wished she could fight with a sword. She wished the tomcat’s edge of her ruined ear did not show under her hair.

Gabe placed two leather-bound books on the table and flipped them open. Written inside was the declaration of
surrender and its terms. Some would call it peace, but it was surrender. Amalia was going to admit defeat and let King Sergei rule her people. She would officially smother her father’s dream. Class and religion would return to Athesia.

But it was better than death. Had to be.

The officers stood around the two women, like a flock of fidgety geese, peering down but not really looking, trying to appear stately and calm. Amalia was not sure what they all thought, but she was certain the warlord did not like this. It went against his ambitions.

Jarman was pleased. But that only meant he had more people willing to die fighting Calemore together. It wasn’t as if a bright future of cooperation and trust awaited them all. Still, it was the only way, he swore. The only way the realms stood any chance of surviving.

One day, our sons will rise against the Parusite yoke
, she thought.
One day, Athesia will be free again
.

But she didn’t dare think about children. To bear them, she needed a husband first. Someone to love and trust. Someone like Gerald. Certainly not a monster like Xavier. But Jarman had promised to protect her if she gave him peace.

She scanned through the neat, tight writing of a practiced scribe’s hand. The details were meaningless now. It was all about the symbol of her signature. Keeping her hand steady, she signed her name and sealed the fate of her realm.

“You have done a great thing,” Jarman praised.

It was later that day, and the world remained unchanged. Ecol still burst with people it could not feed, farmers and refugees and traders still demanded to petition her, to tell her about the roaming bands of thieves and killers in the countryside. She still didn’t have any friends, or loyalty from her
mixed lot of soldiers. It all held together almost by magic, one woven of coincidence, sheer luck, habit, and bittersweet torment.

“The future will tell,” she said, trying to sound calm, to keep acid from her voice.

“Only today, you had just ten thousand men capable of fighting against the Naum menace. Now, you have twenty thousand Red Caps at your side. And still more are under way. The king is sending fresh troops north, and soon, we will have fifty thousand soldiers.”

She shrugged. “And my patrols report the enemy has more than ten times that number.”