The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (77 page)

“He will return in about two hours,” she told him, never lifting her eyes from the beast.

In the corner of the room, that priest woman who always tagged along with the princess sat in a chair behind a desk, writing something. When Bart did not seem to vanish, she put the quill down and impaled him with a rancid stare.

Bart did his best to ignore the other woman. “I was told I would meet him,” the count said, almost petulantly. He scratched his beard. Of late, Sergei would often leave the main camp to inspect some kind of a secret project his people were working on in a smaller, secluded bivouac about two leagues farther south. According to the rumors so amply provided by the Borei, the king was assembling some kind of a dreadful weapon there. But Bart was not allowed to go there. Sergei had given him the freedom of the camp, and even let him risk his life going into Roalas, but that small clearing was closed to him. His spies reported nothing.

Sasha wiped her hands on her trousers and stood up. The shaggy monster lumbered away and sprawled near the fire. “Yes, I know why you’re here. You will try to tire my brother to death with your terms. I think he already knows them by heart.”

Bart wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. This woman was molten iron.

“You see, Lord Bart, my brother is weak, like all men. He believes in family and children. He believes in morals and saving face. He has a notion for theatrics that all men will take for insightful courage, but most women will see as a waste of time.”

“I don’t quite understand,” he hazarded.

Sasha flashed a quick, perfunctory smile. “The only reason Roalas still stands is because my brother leads the Parusite army. If it were up to me, the city would have been razed months ago, with or without the hostages. Taken and conquered and subjugated. It’s the feeble hope of somehow trying to save his son that keeps him indecisive. After two months, I would expect him to know better. If he hasn’t come up with a plan, there isn’t any.” She rolled her eyes. “I did tell him bringing Vlad to the battle would be a risk, but he didn’t want to hear it. He thinks battle is the best school for young princes. I told him the boy would gain so much more from studying politics, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I would,” Bart said, not quite convinced.

Sasha stepped closer toward him. The look she gave him was hard and vicious, but it did nothing to stop his heart from racing. “Your monarch, the High Council, all the rest of you
men
, you respect my brother because he leads a massive army. He reasons by force. All of you do. But once Roalas falls, what then?”

Bart tried to keep still as she circled around him. He had to be very careful around the princess.

“My brother made a mistake attacking Athesia without consulting with either the Eracians or the Caytoreans. He made the same strategic blunder our father did.” She stepped away. “And now that his splendid show of force is not yielding the desired results, he’s wavering, fatally, like all you men do when something goes wrong.”

Bart had to smirk at that. “I am not quite sure why you’re telling me this.”

The Red Cap lifted a poniard from a desk, whirling it between her fingers. “You know exactly why. My brother will not let go of your hostages, even if he can save them with their heads still attached to their necks. You know this, and you fear the backlash of another war. You know Monarch Leopold will never agree to any kind of discussion over their status, not after that whore Amalia humiliated him so. But my brother does not understand that. He thinks the burning carcass of Roalas would be all the legitimacy he needs to brandish his cock like a golden wand of sudden wonders.”

“So what do you propose?” Bart said after a long pause.

“If you want to prevent another war, you should think how you can get Vlad out of there. That’s the only way.”

Bart didn’t like this idea. He wasn’t here to save the Parusite heir. He was here to negotiate a bloodless future for Eracia. The old idea of a marriage proposal between Galina and Ludwig was still an option he might use if he felt cornered by despair. Would the king trade
another
child for the good of his realm? He did not want to pursue that grim thought now. He had to focus. Sasha demanded all of his attention.

“I will see what I can do,” he answered at last like the diplomat he was.

“Lord Bart,” Sasha intoned, “I know you are here to secure the release of your countrymen. But their freedom will not come at the expense of Parusite gains and needs. If Eracia aligns with Athesia, there’s going to be another brutal war come the spring. Now, this little would-be empire is going to fall, no matter what you do. So you’d better rethink your bets.”

Bart nodded. “I understand.” Oh, he wanted to court this crazy woman, to duel with her intellect, fight her brutal, emotionless logic with his own witty remarks. But then, he realized, he already had won such a cold, cruel prize already, just by being rich. Perhaps he deserved Sonya after all.

“Dismissed,” Sasha said. The priestess stood up, watching him intently. She looked as if she intended to wrestle him out of the hut if he lingered.

Deflated, angered, he walked out. He had not expected this meeting, and it had left him flustered and annoyed. He felt the meaning of his work thaw like old ice, turning from a solid ball of shiny crystals into a nugget of mushy dung.

Constance stood to the side, talking to a bored guard, flirting in her shy, reserved way. She looked at him, smiled, and broke the conversation with the soldier. Bart watched her come back to him. Sonya had always made him feel bad. Sasha made him feel equally bad. Every time he saw her, he felt stupider for some reason. But Constance…

He didn’t quite understand it, but all this frustration bubbling up created inside of him a deep need for approval. Perhaps he adored Princess Sasha, but he liked being adored even more. He needed it. His whole life had been one thankless duty. No more.

When Constance launched her fresh onslaught of innocent questions, he gladly welcomed it.

CHAPTER 48

“B
ring him in,” Sergei ordered.

A few moments later, the guards ushered a cowled man into the king’s hut. Sergei flicked his fingers. The small crowd left. He did not want anyone present for this meeting, not his noble retainers, not Genrik, not even Giorgi. He did not even trust his dear sister on this matter.

“Welcome, sir,” the king offered in an almost compassionate tone.

The stranger removed his hood to reveal the old and wrinkled face of Theodore, Empress Amalia’s personal adviser. “Greetings, Your Highness.”

“Can I offer you some hot tea?”

Theodore nodded. “Yes, I would be grateful.”

Sergei rose from his chair and walked over to a small side table. On top of it, there was a large utilitarian flagon, a pair of pewter cups, the last cubes of sweetened lizard tails that Timur had managed to prepare before the winter sank in. He poured the black, steaming tea into the cups and handed one over to the adviser.

The old man sipped carefully.

It was blistering cold outside, Sergei knew. The air tasted like metal and ashes. Any other time, it might have been magical, the frosted sky, the crunchy whiteness, the luminescence, the hazy glow of pureness. The last flake of snow had fallen two days back, and now the world was waiting, with the same anticipation like everyone in the Parusite camp, for the year to turn.

His countrymen were not used to this kind of winter, although desert nights could be just as deadly. When the icy west winds came shrieking, blowing fine dust as sharp as shards of glass, they cut like a sword and blinded like a whip. In Sigurd, snow was an attraction for the rich and a nuisance for the sailors, who had to sweep the slush off their decks and dry the sails before they broke the masts with their weight. In an army siege camp, snow was also a curse.

“Eighteen years ago, my father died at the gates of your city,” he said.

“I remember,” Theodore said, his breath misting.

“I will not make the same mistake,” Sergei warned. He picked up a cube of lizard, but then hastily put it back. He had no appetite. “Tell me something, Lord Theodore. Are you a patriot?”

The old man coughed into his hand. “I am not a lord, and I love my realm.”

Sergei cracked his knuckles. “Oh, which one is that? Athesia? Caytor?”

“I do admit I was born in another realm.” Theo spoke slowly. “But that does not mean I will betray the empress.”

The king raised his hands defensively. “Yet you agreed to come to talk to me.”

“It is my duty to do everything in my power to protect the empress and her people and advise accordingly,” Theo said. He looked weary, but his eyes were sharp and focused.

Sergei pursed his lips. “I see. Tell me something, sir. How often do you visit the battlements?”

Theodore put the empty cup down. “Every few days, Your Highness.”

“What do you see?”

“I see Athesia, its fields, its rivers. I see the villages and hamlets. I see the thick rings of your siege armies.”

Sergei shook his head. “That is obvious. But do you see the rebirth? Four months ago, most of the land was scarred from the fighting, razed homes, burned crops, floods of refugees trying to get away from the killing. Now, you will see new towns sprouting where the old, charred remains were. You will see new bridges erected and new wells dug, irrigation channels snaking through the fields, fishing boats inching up and down the Telore to the south. You will see thousands of Athesians coming to my side, to bend knee and gain my protection. They do not care who their leader is or what he—or she—might look like. They only care for the roof above their heads and some food in their bellies. That is all.”

“Your restraint and civility are most commendable,” Theodore said. “They have not been ignored.”

Sergei nodded. “I have nothing against the people of Athesia. They have seen a lot of calamity and unrest shake their lives in the past two generations. They had your councillors and then they had the unholy Feorans for masters. After them, it was the no-less-unholy Adam, and now they serve his daughter. What difference does it make if they swear loyalty to me?”

Theodore remained standing, his half-lidded eyes making the false impression of apathy. “Frankly, I believe the common people care little for the coats of arms and banners of their lords.”

“What about you, sir? What do you care about? What do you believe in? And please be seated.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” The old man lowered his stiff body into a simple canvas chair. Lately, Sergei had refused to indulge in commodities when his soldiers traded turnips for gold and woke every morning lucky to count all their fingers and toes in place. “I was born in this city. I was apprenticed to a lawmaker when I was still a young lad in my teens. I remember the life when the High Council still held sway this far west. I also remember the Feoran revolution. It mainly affected the rich and noble, and I can’t say most people lamented their losses. But then I remember the night when severed heads rained on this city.”

Theodore rubbed his thighs, sighed, continued. “By then, I was a civil servant. And unlike many of my colleagues, I knew what it meant. I was appointed to ensure and maintain the goodwill of the people, the rich, the poor, all of them. It’s all about the balance. Merchants cannot prosper if the streets are packed with starving children and criminals. Nor can the poor ever hope for safety when heads roll. I knew that peace and stability were my calling. So, I did what I knew best, and that is to advise the ruler about what’s best for the city and what’s best for the realm. No matter what you call them, Roalas citizens are my people.”

Sergei took a chair opposite the old man. “So, you have no loyalty.”

The man never lost his composure; neither did his tone change. He stated simply, flatly, “I serve the good of the people.”

“So what did you advise your empress? Did you tell her to open her gates and surrender to me?”

Theo was silent for a moment. “I cannot divulge that information. You may question my motives, but I am not a traitor.”

“More tea?” Sergei asked and poured. He sipped his with a loud hiss. “Roalas will fall, you must know that. Commander Gerald has shown some remarkable prowess, but the city is doomed. Athesia cannot defeat my forces. Sooner or later, you will starve. There will be a civil war. Someone will open the gates. But it does not have to be a butchery.”

“You cannot ask me to betray the people of the city.”

Sergei shook his head slowly. “I would never do that. But I want you to consider carefully the implications of your actions. Your duty is to the people. Make sure that they live to see the morrow. Make sure that their homes and shops still stand when Parusite troops march in an orderly manner through the streets of Roalas.”

Theodore said nothing. He held the cup and warmed his hands, but he did not drink.

Sergei rose. “Please follow me.” He led the old man out of the hut.

The night slapped him in the face. It was well past midnight. The camp was eerily quiet. With mandatory sleep curfew and the bitter cold, no one was braving the winter’s venom outside their tents and barracks.