The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (17 page)

He wished he knew what she really planned. She had come so close to getting Athesia back through the simple matter of marriage. No bloodshed, no treachery, just that womanly persistence that wore at rocks better than a hammer. Just like himself, it had all slipped from her fingers in one bitter moment of misfortune. He could imagine her cursing her bad luck, just like he had cursed the unfortunate fall of Roalas and the death of Commander Gerald.

They both could have been heroes. They both could have wed Athesia back into its rightful clutch. And they both had been betrayed by ill timing. Perhaps if they worked together…

Adaption was a businessman’s sharpest tool. As an investor, he had to be ready to discard rotten deals and embrace new ones without losing stride. In one breath, with cold, calculated professionalism. That was what all this was. He had considered trying to win Amalia’s heart. But now, he had an even better
candidate. In fact, he wouldn’t be ruling out any option. Rheanna, Amalia, they were both pretty, rich, and powerful.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re planning?” Adrian asked.

Stephan wondered if his face had betrayed too much. “Not yet, friend. Suffice to say, I have some ambitious designs ahead of me.”

“Worth another bet?”

Stephan smiled.
Why not?
“Definitely.” The food arrived, steamy, spicy, and arranged with grace on expensive porcelain platters. He stole a glance at a pale cleavage before the woman straightened up. “Another thousand.” For a moment, he remembered his games with Duke Vincent.

“And what is it that you’re going to do?”

Stephan wondered how to phrase it. He wanted it to sound grand. Bookworthy. Then again, he did not want to reveal too much. There was always a risk speaking your mind freely around drunk people, even someone like Adrian.

“Get Athesia back,” he stated.

His friend did not seem impressed. “So why bet only a thousand?”

Stephan forked a succulent piece of lamb. “Any more than that would just be showing off.”

CHAPTER 12

R
iding in a carriage was even worse than parading through Roalas on horseback. As a boy, Sergei would often hurt too much from his father’s beatings to endure sitting inside a coach for hours, bouncing up and down. Then, as a young prince, no longer worried about King Vlad whipping his backside bloody, he had been forced to grow beyond the measure of his years and prove his worth, and that meant saddling up with Vasiliy’s retainers and joining them on the raids into the Red Desert. For the better part of his life, he had lived on horseback, ruling at saddle height above his subjects.

He would have loved going to Keron riding with a thousand men at his flanks. However, old Theo was not vigorous enough for the task. So he sat inside a large, lavish royal carriage, enjoying the view of the world through a small curtained rectangle, the inside gently reeking of decay and bad teeth. Strange how every old person had that, no matter how rich or noble.

Leaving Roalas to meet this Gavril was a delicate task, with a powerful message. Some might mistake it for a weakness, but it was the exact opposite. Sergei could have used pride for a weapon, but he did not recall any one ruler getting any wiser
that way. Then again, bringing the holy man and his followers into the city felt a little too much like the nomad overtaking of Somar. He did not want to be remembered as the
second
king to lose his head by inviting his enemies over within the span of one year. Leopold would have an exclusive privilege to the claim.

The only thing that really bothered him was the carriage.

Yesterday, he had departed from Roalas, arrived in Keron with the first evening stars, and lodged there, fully aware of the presence of an army of thirty thousand men just a short distance away. The city officials had gone out of their way to accommodate him, frightened and delighted in equal measures. Now, he was making the last leg of the journey to meet the holy man.

He was wondering what he might do if things went wrong. What if the holy man decided to usurp the ruler, right there, right then? His soldiers were well trained to protect him, but there was only so much they could do against a whole army of followers. Even though the secret and shame of that sad incident had died with Vlad the Fifth, Sergei could not guarantee the patriarchs had truly forgiven the royal bloodline.

He wasn’t their favorite champion. They might simply have conspired to get rid of him.

There were close to a thousand souls in his retinue, though, mostly fully armed heavy cavalry, with crossbows and lances. His three squires were all there, bearing standards. The royal guard rode around the carriage, both Borya and Vitya among them. For the sake of national peace, he had even allowed a hundred Athesian soldiers to join the procession, riding at the back. This was their chance to prove their loyalty.

At that moment, Sergei wished he were back home, with his wife and children. He missed them. Sometimes, he struggled
to recall the faces of his sons, and he wondered how much they had grown in the past two summers. He wanted to consult with Vasiliy, to hear his wisdom and his sound, practical advice. Well, he could just keep on riding, to Copper Astar, Bridgen, Corama, and then enter Sigurd. That would mean abandoning this war and, worse, leaving Sasha in charge. He was almost certain she would turn the victory into butchery. She would probably stop only after burying the last of the Athesians at the far northern border, and maybe a few unlucky Caytoreans, too, if they made the wrong choice of being around.

That would mean Vlad having died in vain. That would mean so many bad, sad things. So he had to endure his pain and longing and focus on completing this sorry campaign. It was true what the ballads said. The longer the battle went on, the more desperate people grew. In turns, they just chose worse options still, perpetuating everybody’s misery.

His impulse called for giving up. So he knew he had to fight on, hard, making difficult choices.

“You look pensive, Your Highness,” Theo remarked. His face said it all; he had seen all there was to rulers and their qualms and doubts and intrigues, and he was not impressed.

“Pensive?” Sergei snorted. “I am exhausted.”

“Well, perhaps today you will find peace,” the old man added.

Or more bloodshed
, Sergei thought. He considered saying something witty, but Genrik followed in the second coach, so there would be no one to scribble his wisdom. He closed his lips tight, leaned back, and let the road bumps jab against his shoulder blades.

It wasn’t long before the procession halted. Matvey dismounted, came back, and held the carriage door open for him. Sergei stepped out, stretching. His eyes took a moment
adjusting to the sunlight, and then he gazed to the left and saw the massive, sprawling city that worshipped the holy man Gavril.

Not that long ago, he had led a daring charge deep into Athesia, with men pursuing the enemy day and night so they would not have any time to regroup or warn their comrades about the invasion. He remembered the Athesian defeat in Keron, quick and brutal. Villages had burned, people had lain in the fields, killed by an endless, boiling wave of troops. His men would not even stop to pillage; they just kept moving north.

One thing Sergei clearly did not remember was the huge blot of houses, chimneys, barns, and low sheds spread before him. This used to be empty land, fields and grass and an occasional tree. Now, his passage was blocked by a city that outsized Keron. Terrifying as much as it was astonishing.

There was a delegation of peasants and workers waiting for him, several hundred, a human wall that did not ooze love and loyalty.

“Borya,” he called. The lieutenant of the guard nudged his horse around. “I want to avoid any confrontations. Keep the men alert, but do not draw weapons, and do not respond to provocations.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the soldier barked.

Sergei looked at Gavril’s camp again. The men were not armed for battle, but they surely did not radiate peace and compassion. They were well tanned, hardy, and confident. Religion was a very powerful motivator. He wished he could feel some of their conviction.

One of the messengers trotted forward and handed his missive to a likely looking leader of the other group. The man frowned stupidly at the letter, obviously intimidated by written
words. Still, without saying anything, he was gone, carrying the message into the camp.

Sergei decided to put all slights and humiliations away, to completely ignore them. There was no purpose to protocol and finesse right now. He wanted to see what this Gavril really wanted. Was it power? Recognition? Something else entirely? Sergei had dealt with rebels before. He had put down and repelled his share of insurrections and raids across Parus. He understood how the mob mentality worked and how, sometimes, people simply felt compelled by the circumstances, unable to back down from silly threats and empty bravado. He understood this Gavril might not be looking to challenge his rule, but he could end up doing that if the meeting went sour.

The best way to resolve the situation was to talk to the holy man. In fact, he had already done a great deal by coming over.
Not weakness, strength
.

As he waited, he tried to glimpse past the welcoming party into this new town. There was a lot of activity there, just as you would expect from a living, breathing place, full of commerce and craft. People were going about their business, nourishing and growing the camp. That gave him some small hope. Folk bent on building things tended to be less keen on destroying them.

It wasn’t long before a person came forward, so much like everyone else, yet entirely different. He wasn’t young or old, ugly or handsome, tall or short, or anything of that sort. There was nothing special about him. Just an average, ordinary person, with the perfect measure of common and noble. He bore with mechanical precision that was almost too artfully sharp to watch. Dressed in a simple gray robe, he was followed by a boy and a reserved fellow with a long, dangling moustache. That one was armed, a large, wicked ax hanging from his hip.
A whole flock of other people trailed behind, keeping their distance, but it was obvious they wanted to be close to this man. He could feel their adoration, rising like desert heat off the sand. There was a palpable change in the atmosphere, suddenly going soft, mellow, and pleasant. He couldn’t hear the throats groaning, but it was as if the air had turned savory and fresh. The human wall buckled, parting to let the man pass through.

There was no mistaking his identity.

Sergei noticed even his retinue was charmed by this Gavril person. Soldiers looked that less tense, that less likely to unsheathe their swords and lop heads off. Their eyes glistened, their mouths hanging slightly open, a breath of surprise on their lips. Genrik was almost smiling. Even Theo looked vibrant and cheerful.

Sergei felt a positive beat of good humor spreading through his body, as if he had just sampled the best kumiss. He realized his anger was seeping away. He tried to will himself to be sharp and nervous and assertive, but his muscles would not respond.

“Greetings, Your Highness,” the robed person called. “I am Gavril.” His voice was clear, beautiful. “I am most honored by your presence. It takes a great man to leave his castle and visit his subjects. Like a willow that bends before the wind but endures long after the wind has passed.”

Sergei blinked, feeling enchanted. He had not felt this relaxed in years. “You have quite an undertaking started here.”

Gavril looked behind him as if surprised to see the city behind him. “This place is a flower of faith. When there’s fertile ground, faith buds and grows. I just showed these people the way. They built it; they made it.”

Sergei was honestly intrigued. He had thought Athesia to be a godless realm. Then, in its very midst, there was a place
with so much piety and faith that it rivaled the holy cities in the Safe Territories. Maybe it was just as simple as Gavril claimed.

“This city is a mirror of people’s needs and fears and questions. This is where they come to find peace and shelter and answers. Through prayer and devotion for their gods and goddesses, they get what they want. They are rewarded for their love.”

Sergei could never recall when prayer would get him
that
much peace. If anything, his conviction had eroded over the years, shattering with Vlad’s death. But now, seeing this throng milling with purpose and dedication and belief, he almost doubted himself. “Incredible.”

Gavril stepped closer, the moustached man and the big boy staying behind. Borya tensed ever so slightly, but it was like a drunk man responding to an annoying gnat, hardly the reaction of a man charged with protecting the king’s life. Onward came the holy man, looking totally unconcerned. Soon, he stood inches from Sergei, his face a wreath of honesty and timeless wisdom.

“When people cannot find harmony with their leaders”—he tapped Sergei’s chest—“they find it with their gods. Peace in the realms begins with the peace in your soul.”

Sergei felt oddly insulted and relieved at the same time. Gavril’s clear voice felt like it carried across the crowd, but he was certain no one else had heard those words. “You might have a point, holy man. But I must ask, what is the purpose of your presence here? Does your endeavor jeopardize my reign?” He probably should have phrased the question more elegantly, but he just couldn’t spin the words.