The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (52 page)

Tanid was staring north. Just a few days away of travel on foot, the king of Parus sat in Roalas, unaware of the doom that threatened his people. Would he be wise enough to listen? Would he understand the need?

He did not know how much longer he had. Even gods were blind sometimes.

Well, the best he could do was prepare. That meant prayer. He stepped down the ladder and asked Holy Brother Clemens
to lead the service, praising the soldiers and their luck and the gods who had bestowed it upon them. It was still midday, not a customary time for a sermon, but there was no bad time for Tanid to get more power. So, he stood by the priest as he chanted and sang, and watched the men around him kneel and weep their devotion, and their energy imbued him with a feeling of hope and potency. Calemore might be coming for him, but he would be ready.

CHAPTER 38

A
malia was dreaming, but then a strange, alien noise barged into her sleep. In that brief yet slow moment between slumber and reality, she realized something was wrong.

I have been discovered!

She kicked awake with a start, her breath hissing between her teeth, trying to disentangle herself from the blankets, rising, pushing off the bed. A meaty hand clamped round her mouth and shoved her back against the mattress. She wanted to howl, but all she managed was to mumble into that callused skin that smelled of sword oil and bacon. She tried to shake the grip off her, slamming her head left and right, but the palm stayed, choking her breath short.

A fist pummeled into her stomach, and the muffled shouts turned into a thin wheeze. The hand came off. Amalia wanted to scream now, in earnest, but no words came.

“Keep still, bitch,” someone growled.

She flailed madly in the darkness, legs and arms. Another punch. Strength sluiced from her limbs. Rough fingers grabbed her hands and smacked them together; then a hard, coarse rope was wound around them, cutting off her blood flow. She could
see gray-and-black shadows dancing above her, and one of the big forms wormed a sack over her head. Total darkness.

She was hustled to her feet and marched out of the cabin. The night air whipped her across her bare shins. Her toes stubbed into the crusty snow, and the otherwise soft powder chafed like a file against her skin. The cold was instant, sharp, numbing. Then, they tripped her, and her knees jarred into the frozen ground. More rope was coiled round her ankles.

Her breath was coming in like egg yolk through a straw, and she began to form a wordless, strangled cry of indignation and, underneath, genuine primal fear. Even as the sound rippled into the stinking fabric smothering her, a well-planted kick doubled her over, turning the hot pain in her chest into a fiery agony.

“You keep quiet, and no more kicks, eh?”

Burly arms hauled her up, over a saddle or someone’s shoulder, she was not really sure, her thoughts fuddled from asphyxiation. They were not trying to be gentle. Things poked into her flesh, elbows or hard leather or tack, jabbing hard. The cold wrapped her, an intense winter-night chill that left a raw, stinging mark on her flesh. She could feel heat fleeing her body everywhere those icy fangs bit.

Like a sack of potatoes, she was hauled for some time, blood pounding in her head. She was jostled, upside down, disoriented, nauseated, her nose full of stink and not enough air. Her head banged and lolled, each bump sending a coronet of pain round her skull. She felt bile caressing her throat. The cold robbed her of all strength and dignity. Deep in the pit of her stomach, leaden terror weighed and rolled.

She was lowered to the ground. Solid. Warm. A carpet. The sack was removed, and she had to squint against the lamp glare. The watery shadows resolved into a scene.

A simple room with sparse furnishing but good lighting. Hot, musty, windows barred, the stale smell of dust and old clothes heavy in her nostrils. She had no idea where she was. Someone was standing in front of her.

Her half brother.

“Hwwea—” she tried.

He lifted a finger to his lips. “Not a word. Not a word.”

Amalia swallowed, trying to keep herself calm. It was not easy. Her own breath was coming in quick, raspy bursts, the sound of a terrified, cornered animal.
I’m Adam’s daughter. I am not afraid
, she tried to tell herself, but it was a weak, pitiful lie.

The world pulsed with her own blood, a rapid red cadence that blurred her vision black. She was weak and dizzy, and she wanted to pitch forward and retch on the bastard’s shoes.

“Get her a cup of wine, now,” the usurper commanded.

Another rough hand cupped her chin, keeping it still. Then, a fat thumb pressed under her lip, prying her jaw open. A wooden cup rattled against her front teeth, her upper gums, a painful smack that resonated in the center of her head. Hot wine sloshed against her tongue. She gasped, gurgled, swallowed. She coughed, and some liquid sneezed out of her nose. But then, some sort of energy filled her body. It was a whisper, but enough to let her remain kneeling before this man who called himself the emperor.

James crouched, his face angled, staring at her intently. He looked as if he had not slept, but rather waited for her to be brought to him. His gaze lingered over her features, her short crop of hair, the chipped ear, the scar tissue. His cheeks twitched with emotion, but he said nothing. She could not decipher anything.

Who betrayed me?
she wondered, her mind a helpless boat being wracked in a raging sea storm.

“Bring Commander Nicholas here,” the emperor barked.

Some door opened and closed behind her, once, twice. She could hear leather boots groaning on the carpet, she could feel a presence behind her, and then the commander of the Fourth Legion came into her view. The man she had ordered into Caytor a lifetime ago. The man she knew very well and had so carefully avoided for the past half a year and more.

The officer looked at her. His eyes went wide.

“Commander?” James asked carefully.

Nicholas nodded. She could see the man tense. Then his stare was on James, and his body language spoke of danger.

There was movement to her right, the glint of a knife. It was that man Xavier, casually holding a dagger in his hand, flush with his leg. The room crackled with tension. Amalia could hear her own heart thundering, drowning out all other sounds. Not that there were many sounds in the chamber, just the labored, terse breathing of several men fiddling with life and death. Her death.

“Your thoughts, Commander? What should we do with her?” James said.

Nicholas swallowed; it was an audible gurgle. “I do not know, Your Highness.” Guilty muscles in the side of his face tried to pull sideways, toward Amalia. There was familiarity there, habit, maybe even loyalty, but he kept gazing at the usurper.

James rubbed his forehead. “You have sworn to me, Commander. You marched your troops to my position and offered your service to me as the emperor of Athesia. You did so when you believed Empress Amalia was dead.”

“This changes everything, Your Highness,” the officer whispered. There was sweat beading on his forehead, turning it glossy.

“This changes nothing, Commander. You are a soldier of the realm. You obey the ruler of the land. Your oath is to whoever holds that title. Not to any one man or woman, but to the ideal. Do you understand me?”

The commander of the Fourth Legion huffed. “This is a very difficult situation.”

“It is, and I do not blame you. Nor do I question your doubt or your loyalty. However, there can be only one ruler to Athesia. You have yourself sworn to me and acknowledged my authority.”

“I thought Empress Amalia was dead!” His eyes did flick toward her, then withdrew quickly, as if he were afraid to look at her, afraid he might lose his resolve, his courage if he gawked for too long.

Amalia wanted to speak, but she knew they would kill her if she did. She was certain of it.

James sighed. “Do you want to save Athesia, Commander?”

Nicholas stammered, “I do, Your Highness.”

“If you pledge your oath to…her, you will plunge the realm into civil war. Empress Amalia ruled the realm and lost the war to the Parusites. Her era is over. Whatever she stood for died when Roalas was taken. This is above you and me, Commander. This is about Athesia.”

The man looked at her again, but there was a new grimace there, one of surrender.

Coward, traitor
. She tried to steel herself so she would not cry. But could she blame him? She had let everyone down. She was not worth following. What if they asked her to lay her own life down for someone else? Would she do it?

“We all thought Amalia had died,” James continued more softly. “And I do admit, the status of her and my legacy was never resolved before. But that’s not important anymore. The
nation believes the empress died in Roalas. Their faith is now with us, with me. With you, Commander. Will you rob them of their hope? Will you forsake all the sacrifices we made in the past several months?”

I did die then. The woman kneeling before you is Jerrica, a washerwoman
. She wanted to say that, to deny her real identity, and maybe they would let her be and forget about her. Maybe she could get her miserable existence back.

They will kill me now
, she knew. The realization was one of sadness and relief.

The door to the room clacked again. James’s stern glare shot up angrily; then his face went dark with fury. “I said no interruptions. What are you doing here? You must not be here. Leave, now.”

“On the contrary, Your Highness, I must attend,” a new male voice said, his accent strange.

“This does not concern you,” James warned.

There was a swishing of loose garment. A Sirtai stepped in front of her, dressed in a white night frock, at least the male equivalent. She thought she remembered him vaguely. One of those posh people who milled around her bastard half brother, trying to wheedle favor from him.

He looked silly in those baggy trousers and shirt, but there was a lethal aura about him now.

The man stepped in front of her, partially blocking her, and maybe shielding her. In her fluttery state of terror, she felt relieved and distressed that some total stranger could assume such power over her.

“What do you want, Jarman?” the emperor said. But that cold fury he had assumed with Nicholas was blunted now. The room was suddenly smaller and colder. Amalia remembered to breathe, to let air shiver down her tight, frightened throat.

The Sirtai smacked his lips. “Please think through what you’re about to do. Think very carefully.”

James’s mien was rigid. “I have.”

Jarman smiled. “No, you have not.” And his islander’s eyes turned to regard her. The corner of his lips curled as if he had just told himself a joke. “Empress Amalia, hiding in your midst for so long. Almost ironic, is it not? Oh, but this is a happy occasion.”

“This is
not
a happy occasion,” the bastard retorted.

Amalia saw Xavier tense, turning the blade in his palm. Her midriff spasmed.

“Death,” Jarman said loudly, accusingly, “will not solve anything.” He waited, his gaze still plastered to her, watching her, judging her. “She will be able to provide answers you have not,” the foreigner continued. He turned toward the emperor as if there was no hurry. “Killing her will do you no good. You might feel safer on your throne that way, but you will only have helped your enemy. Calemore will be glad for the extra rivalry and strife among the people of the realms; it will make his work easier.”

Calemore…

Amalia froze.

My name is Calemore. I’m also known as the White Witch of Naum. I have a few other, fairly impressive titles, but I doubt they will mean much to you. My name is Calemore. I’m also known as the White Witch of Naum. I have a few other, fairly impressive titles, but I doubt they will mean much to you. My name is Cale-more. I’m also known as…

This could not be.

“The White Witch,” she spoke into the musty air. Her voice came out weak, thin, crackling.

Jarman and James both looked at her with something like panic on their faces.

My name is Calemore. I’m also known as…

“Cut her bonds,” the Sirtai said, his voice trembling. James nodded dumbly to the man behind her.

She slumped forward and wailed softly as blood rushed through her purple hands and ankles. She rubbed them fiercely, trying to knead the pain away. She could finally see behind her, a whole array of armed man and a huge bald figure with blue tattoos on his skin, an intimidating presence that stole her breath away.

Then, for the thousandth time, the door opened again.

A young man barged in, bleary-eyed. He shoved past the wall of armored guards. “James, I heard a commotion outside. You should have told me. Please stop this before it becomes a disaster. Now.” The man was huffing, a half-buttoned shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. Rough hands reached up, but the newcomer shrugged them off angrily.

James blinked rapidly. “No. Stand back.” Then, he looked at this intruder. “Rob, please.” The bastard was crouching in front of her again, closer this time, rocking on the balls of his feet now. “Everyone, keep quiet. Silence.”