The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (33 page)

Just before moving on Ecol, James had discovered a few scattered regiments of the Eighth Legion farther north, closer to the border with Eracia, and they had gladly joined him. More loyalists, Amalia thought, wondering if she could somehow exploit the fact, but no idea came to her.

Finally, Amalia had watched the Battle of Ecol—or rather, didn’t, because it never really happened.

Ecol was a mining town, and before the Parusite invasion, it had been a critical provider of steel for the army. Ecol was home to Master Guilliam, the famous manufacturer of crossbows. Ecol supplied helmets and breastplates to all the legions. Controlling the city meant access to weapons and tools that the army needed.

The Seventh Legion had troops in three forts around it, one just near the mining camp, the other on the south side, the third farther away, hidden by a wrinkle of low hills, so that anyone arriving from the east or south would not know it was there.

Up on the hill outside the town, glaring through the morning mist, Amalia had watched a brown column of troops pour through the gaps in the forest behind her and split into two massive wings, marching around the defenders’ position slowly, in no hurry, a solid press of men with spears. The city lookouts had sounded a bell, but then, it had been too late, and Ecol was cut off from the world, encircled. With fear in her gullet, Amalia had expected her bastard brother to order a deadly charge into the city’s streets. She had expected him to send Athesians against their own, against innocent women and children. She had believed he would do the same thing as in all those other hamlets and towns.

Only he had not. An envoy was sent, that old man with gnawed leather for skin, and he had returned accompanied by several other men. Two hours later, James had marched his forces into Ecol, lauded by its citizens. A bloodless victory, and now he had access to the best weapons in Athesia, while everyone else was enjoying free food and wine.

Lucky bastard.

In just a few short months, he had done so much more than she had.

Amalia fished the last sprout from the bowl and ate it. She wanted to dramatize, feel like she had lost her appetite because of him, but she had long lost the illusion of self-sacrifice. Nothing she did as a washerwoman would help her cause. She could starve herself to death or gorge on raw, dripping flesh, and no one would notice or care. Eating was the sensible thing to do.

A surge in the noise stole her attention. James had shown his face again, and the people called to him, waving their leftover food and cups of drink. He had clambered onto a small stage erected specially for him so he could address the thousands all at once.

He waved his hands, and the crowd quieted some, the expectation pierced by an odd giggle or burp, and melancholy wails of inebriated singing. The fires crackled, shooting orange sparks into the night, the silver smoke veiled, making funny shapes against the night’s velvet sky. Soon enough, most of the eyes were looking at Emperor James, wondering what he would say next.

“Citizens of Ecol, people of Athesia, brave soldiers,” he began, “I am most grateful for your hospitality, for your sacrifice.” Simple words that simple people would understand. “Our feast continues. Tomorrow, we shall have a parade and a competition. Ecol’s finest craftsmen will present their best
weapons. And then, we will have an archery tournament!” There was a ragged growl of appreciation boiling in the crowd from those sober enough to understand. Hands clapped. “All hail Athesia!” he finished, and the throng exploded in drunken ecstasy, hollering at the top of their lungs. The din was massive, almost physical in ferocity.

James vanished from sight. Amalia watched the crowd around her. She was entirely forgotten. Empress Amalia was dead.

“Hey, lass,” someone called.

Amalia turned around and saw a plain-looking soldier grinning at her. Involuntarily, she reached up toward her short-cropped scalp, toward the scar tissue on her temple, the chipped ear, but the darkness hid those.

Relax. He’s drunk, and he thinks you’re a peasant woman
, she told herself, but the blood pounded in her neck. She was a fool to have come here. Why expose herself? Someone might see her, recognize her. Officers from the Seventh might remember her face. Nicholas and his men might suddenly wander by and glimpse the ghost of their dead empress in their midst, and then her woes would truly start.

“What do you want?” she snapped. She knew she should be ignoring him, but there was bitterness in her soul, a green layer of it.

He gestured, a jerky, uncoordinated motion. “Fancy a tumble?”

Amalia frowned. “What?” And when she realized what he had meant, she reddened. He giggled. “Get lost,” she snarled and stormed away, going back to her camp.

She woke to the sound of pattering, erratic, soft. At first, she thought she was back in Roalas, in her imperial chambers,
and a male pigeon was strutting on the sill, trying to impress a lady pigeon somewhere. Then, she realized it was the rain, an honest autumn rain.

Her head hurt from too much ale. She got up and stepped around gingerly, trying to work strength back into her wooden limbs. She stumbled out of the tent, into a gray world streaked with tiny silver vertical lines. Chilly drops slid down her neck, sobering her instantly. She shivered, but was glad for the cool, cleansing touch of the downpour.

Amalia spread her arms and looked up, blinking rapidly as rain hissed into her eyes.

The camp was quiet. The last four mornings, it had been like this, a lazy slumber of men who had finally let down their guard after weeks of hard travel and killing. Not that anyone forgot the threat of the Parusite army just two weeks south, but for now, everyone could rest and enjoy the victory their emperor had brought them. Even her duties could wait.

She knew she should wait for Agatha before the two of them went to the mess and begged for their morning gruel, but she was feeling anxious, edgy. Ignoring the ants of pain crawling across her scalp, she headed through the camp. A few soldiers had woken up, some craftsmen were busy sharpening their tools, but it was silent and almost empty of souls.

The earth sucked at her feet, making her stagger and tire quickly. Soon, she was panting, drenched in rain. She pulled her short woolen cape closer, hiding any womanly bit that stuck out.

There was a hive of human noise to her right, unusual for the after-feast morning. She steered toward it, curious.

There he was, her half brother.

He was sitting on a gray horse, its hair dappled black by the rain. By his side were some of his cronies, including that
Caytorean smoker. Amalia thought she recognized the Seventh deputy commander, but he looked in charge now.
After all, the senior officers were killed by the Pum’be
, she thought. Another man. Commander Nicholas. A handful of armed men.

They did not seem drunk at all. They all looked very businesslike, a stark visage for the gloomy early morning. She had expected James to be inside Ecol, sleeping in the mayor’s house, entertaining the rich, doling out favors, and spreading his charm. She had not thought he would hazard the weather for a brisk morning ride.

Something was happening.

Amalia wanted to know. But that meant coming closer, risking a clear look from at least two men who had talked to her in the past.
You’re a coward
, her conscience whispered in a slimy voice.
Better a coward than a dead, brave fool
, her reason tried to counter.

James laughed, and that man Rob joined him. Commander Nicholas was smiling politely. James’s chief killer, the one with that erratic blink, was wearing a scowl. He did not seem to like whatever had transpired.

I must know
. Amalia stepped closer. This was the officers’ part of the camp. She should not be here unless she had business to do. They would notice her, she would be discovered, and her half brother would be forced to smother her in silence, burying her in truth.

“…left behind,” she heard Commander Nicholas saying. “Not a large force. But they might be a screening force.”

“They would not dare strike into Caytor,” the killer was saying.
Xavier
, Amalia recalled.

James tapped his cheek. “We cannot take any chances. What if they attack my people? Eight thousands unarmed civilians. Any news from Councillor Sebastian?”

“What do we do about those two women?” Xavier asked.

Her half brother pulled on the reins, and his horse took a small nervous step back. “I want to talk to them,” he spoke, and he sounded impatient, as if he had said that before.

“Let me handle this,” the killer growled.

“No torturing women, I will not stand for it,” the emperor hissed.

What women?
Amalia wondered. Another step.

“That’s a risky business. They can infiltrate just like that, posing as ordinary women, Your Highness,” an unfamiliar voice was saying.

“Risky indeed. War is a risky business. But we will not cut the feast short. And there will be no torture. I don’t care. Just make sure the camp perimeter is set tight. And if you’re really worried, we will have separate fires for the commoners and the army, but that sends the wrong message.”

“I
am
worried, Your Highness.”

James muttered something she did not quite catch. “…uninterrupted.”

“Bad weather for archery,” Rob complained.

Her half brother looked north. There was a patch of clear, jaundiced sky there peeking through the cloud cover, and it seemed to be creeping slowly toward Ecol. Maybe the rain would cease by midday, she thought and wondered what he was pondering.

“In the worst case, we will postpone the parade and tournament until tomorrow. Or the day after. But they
will
happen.”

The man she did not recognize did not seem to like the decision, but said nothing.

“Now, take me to see these spies.”

Xavier led the group away, riding toward the mining camp.

Amalia watched, trying to piece together what had just happened. Spies? What did that mean? Was Ecol safe? But the camp was peaceful and quiet, still.

“Boy, whatcha doing here?” someone spoke in a thick voice.

They meant her. She knew it. She was a fool.
Boy, they think I’m a man. Short hair, slim figure, bundled in a cape that left everything to the imagination
.

“Nothin’,” she answered, trying to sound like a man.

“You is one of the town lads?” the same voice asked. “You lost?”

She nodded vaguely.

“Free grub, eh?” There was a tiny note of sympathy in that voice now. Amalia did not dare turn around to see the speaker. She did not want to know who he was. And she could not let him see her.

She nodded again, holding her breath. If she lived through this incident, she promised herself she would never leave her side of the camp, never walk around without Agatha. What was she thinking? She was no strategist. She knew nothing about war. She was a deluded girl who thought she could step into her father’s shoes. A tear of shame budded in the corner of her eye. Empty rage filled her.

“Mess over there. Get yourself somethin’. And beat it.”

Amalia did not need goading. She scurried away, hunched low, trying to hide her figure. She pushed her hips forward so they did not sway when she walked. The rain had plastered her dress to her legs, and in the rain-draped world, it could be mistaken for baggy trousers. That was good. She had a disguise; she could avoid detection.

She whimpered, short of breath, as she staggered home to her little tent, to her splinter of sanity. This was where she
belonged now. Her life was all about being a helpless, ignorant commoner, living at the whim of those bigger and stronger than her. She was just a lowly subject of Emperor James, a washerwoman for his troops. A nameless peon in his war.

Why do people put up with this?
she thought.
For the same reason I do
.

Amalia sat down on the muddy grass, shivering, sobbing. She was hungry. Her body hurt. She wanted a friend to tell her that it would all be all right one day. That she would see her pride and power restored, that she would once again matter. She wanted to believe her worthless little existence had meaning. Above all, she wanted to believe she had it in her to endure this madness. But for any solution, there must be a plan, and she had none. Her mind, day after day, was barren. Not the kind of education her father had given her. Still, even if her own life depended on it now, she could not come up with anything other than loathing and pity for her sorry state.

For the briefest moment, she considered finding herself an officer, who would at least take care of her, so she need not be alone and fret over every meal, every little issue, and worry constantly that someone might take liberties with her. But she did not have the guts for that either.

Later on, the sky did clear. The day turned out to be nice, and Ecol folks poured out of their homes to witness the parade of the city’s crossbow makers and then watch the lords and army commanders and their best shots compete, firing at ducks and geese. People laid down their bets, they laughed and shouted and swore, but everyone was happy, and there was still more food and drinks for everyone. They even roasted the birds killed in the tournament.

Only Amalia sat on her own, wondering what she had done wrong to deserve her fate.