The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (37 page)

Jarman pursed his lips. “We must not despair. This is a monumental event for the people of the realms. After so many years of war, there is finally peace between the nations. It is a fragile thing, like the pink skin on an old burn, but we must hold it together at all costs. And I will help you.”

Amalia remembered something. “What about James’s widow?”
She will not accept this peace
.

Jarman looked toward the celebration. “This is a great strategic victory for Parus. They have leverage against Caytor, and they sorely need it. Now, the High Council must have intended to use Lady Rheanna against you, but you have completely foiled their plan. Their ambitions are meaningless now. So they will be forced to accept a grudging peace like they did in your father’s time.”

Amalia sighed. “What will my Caytorean troops do now?”

He pointed north. “If they are wise, they will remain loyal. No one can doubt the threat of the Naum invasion anymore. Regardless, Lucas and I will handle that, if needed. I promise you.”

She recalled Master Hector’s warning. He had called Jarman’s rumor a blessing. Maybe it was. Maybe she could finally put her fear of betrayal at rest. With the White Witch poised to strike into the heart of the realms any day now, there was no more time for strife in the realms.

Just a stone’s throw away, the Parusites and Athesians and the odd Caytorean were mingling, honoring the peace agreement with loud music, drinking, joking, and feasting, seemingly oblivious to the death awaiting them. The celebration was taking place under the evening sky, because there were just too many people to cram into Ecol’s small establishments. It was almost like the upcoming Autumn Festival, happening a few weeks too early.

While the officers chattered, and gulped wine, the soldiers were having no rest. Companies of Red Caps were marching into the Athesian camp to mingle and meet with their former adversaries and take defensive positions against Calemore’s army. After months of killing one another, the two factions were coming together. There was a vibrant buzz of excitement among her soldiers, hardly any fear, resentment, or mistrust. The men were eager to meet so many foreign women, no matter that they had tried to hack them to pieces just weeks earlier.

Despite an orderly procession, there had been incidents all afternoon. Even though Hector and Xavier had ordered quartermasters to confiscate all bows from the sentries, a few stubborn men had smuggled their weapons to their posts and fired an odd arrow against the marching mass of women. The temptation had been too great.

Then, a few men had forgotten to say please before groping a teat and had their fingers and noses broken. Half a dozen men had been beaten for attempted rape, and another twenty
awaited morning judgment, which would decide if they would hang. Still, it was a peaceful and friendly surrender overall.

Amalia looked at the cohort of revelers.
Amazing. Must be survival instincts
, she thought. Female officers and her own commanders were talking freely, discussing their worldly differences. Not a bad word about the assaults against Ecol. Princess Sasha stood apart, like herself, with a priest woman at her shoulder.

The most entertaining person in the lot was Captain Speinbate of the Borei. The mercenary had gold-capped teeth, and when he laughed, he shone. His olifaunts had been left far outside the main garrison to avoid panic. But his men moved in the crowd, and they had all the traits of professional swindlers about them. Amalia did not like mercenaries, but then she realized her own army was half paid for its loyalty. And these Borei had a certain friendly charm about them.

A dangerous lot, certainly.

She decided to drift closer. She had to be brave. She had to participate, show her strength. She could not abandon her people right now. This surrender did not absolve her of her responsibility. On the contrary, it only bound her harder. Everything that happened now to Athesia would be her fault. Everything.

The Borei captain was talking to Xavier. She saw tears of mirth in the warlord’s eyes, a surprising phenomenon. Master Hector was nibbling a celery shoot, grinning broadly at the mercenary’s story.

“…and the last one to hold wins!”

The old sergeant laughed hard. Xavier threw his head back and roared. Some of the drunken people nearby joined in. “I must see that, Captain.”

Amalia stepped next to them. They sobered, but only a little. “Captain Speinbate, I presume?”

He looked her up and down quickly, not just a man sizing up a woman, an expert trader evaluating new merchandise. “At your service, Your Highness,” he said.
For a price
, his eyes added.

“May I know what is so entertaining?” she asked, feeling silly and awkward. But what else could a defeated empress do? Go back to her inn, sulk, and cry?

Their mirth fled them. Xavier grimaced sourly. Master Hector clamped his mouth on the celery rib, and he looked like some rodent. The Borei tried to smile, and ended up looking like he was picking his teeth. “Hmm, not sure if you should. But if you insist.”

“Please,” she said.

“Well, we have this game,” the mercenary explained. “You take several volunteers, and you make them drink oil from these beans we grow in the south.” He held his thumb and forefinger up, half an inch apart. “Brown with black dots. We call it
kesset
. So they drink a cup each, and it makes their bowels go loose.” He clapped enthusiastically. “Now, the competition is, they stand naked on a white sheet, you see, and the man who holds the longest without soiling himself wins.”

He’s just told an empress about a shitting competition
, Amalia thought.
What a man
. “Thank you,” she murmured, feeling stupid for intruding. She moved deeper into the crowd. Inevitably, her feet led her to her new ruler, or rather, his sister.

“Your Highness,” Amalia said, feeling strange.

“Your Excellence.” The princess returned the greeting.

Amalia thought about something smart to say. Discuss war? No, not now. She could pretend her life was normal and
simple for one evening, one night. “Will you move into Ecol now?”

Sasha shook her head. “No. I prefer to lodge with my troops. Gives me purpose and awareness. A commander that sleeps away from her troops is a bad example for all.”

Amalia nodded. Was this a jibe at her soft imperial upbringing? Or just simple, practical truth? But she was glad the princess did not want to sleep in Ecol. That meant she could still hold Brotherly Unity and pretend to own something.

Officially, Princess Sasha would rule Athesia, she knew, but Amalia would be allowed back to Roalas, where she would govern the princedom. It would be like before, only the money would go to Sigurd. Provided they defeated Calemore, that was.

The priestess at her side gently tapped Sasha’s forearm. The princess turned, scowled, and saw the sun was gently setting, coloring the evening clouds orange and pink.

“It is time for the evening prayer,” she announced.

Prayer?

A horn note rose into the air some distance off, but it had a mellow, relaxed tone to it. Not a cry to arms, not a warning against an enemy army, a summons of a sort.

The priestess raised her hands and began chanting, her voice too low to discern the words. But Princess Sasha knelt, closed her eyes, and prayed. All around, the Red Caps officers did the same. Then, Amalia did the same.

She closed her eyes and kept her mouth silent, but she knew this was expected of her. Halfway through the ceremony, she peeled one lid open and stared. Everyone was at half their height, kneeling in the grass, all except the Borei, who were watching the prayer with an amused look on their scheming
faces. The Athesians looked shocked, probably as much as she was.

Humiliation is nothing
, Amalia thought.
I am here to protect my people
.

Soon, it ended, and the celebration continued just like before. Amalia moved woodenly through the crowd, trying to salvage what little dignity she had left, but the festivity moved past her eyes in a sad blur.

In the morning, a duck-waddling Agatha woke her. For a moment, Amalia thought it was just another day, and she had dreamed the humiliation yesterday. She would go into the common room of the inn and talk to her advisers and officers, who would be assembled and waiting. They might begin discussing war, provisions, and banditry even without her, as they often did.

But Agatha looked worried.

Still drowsy, Amalia thought something awful had happened while she slept, so she rushed to the window and squinted against the bright sunlight. Soon, her eyes adjusted, and she saw a peaceful Ecol wake to another day, oblivious to the threat looming to the north. The fields were littered with the leftovers of the previous night’s celebration, shattering any last shred of hope that she may have just dreamed her downfall. Life was ignorance, rolling down a hill until it hit something and stopped, she thought.

I am no longer am empress
, she figured. That much wasn’t a dream.

“Amalia,” Agatha said. She sounded very tense.

“What is it?”

“This is different, Amalia. They are waiting for you. The Sirtai wizard wanted to come up here, but I would not let him.”

Amalia looked at her maid and did not request any clarification. Mind swirling with gloomy ideas, she dressed quickly, squished an apricot open and tossed the pip back into the bowl, bit into the soft orange flesh and found it too sweet for her taste, and then went downstairs.

Whatever happens, I will face the consequences bravely
, she promised herself.

In the common room of the inn, all of her staff was assembled, plus several Red Caps. They stood around a single stranger who looked like a traveler, a man of precise yet nondescript looks and age, dirt on his clothes the only sign of imperfection. He looked well at ease with all the soldiers glaring at him. Behind them, hidden by the shoulders and heads of her officers, several more travelers waited.

Jarman stood right next to the man, looking quite cheerful. The contrast in his mood was just as startling and alarming as the presence of this stranger. There was something about him that made her feel worried. She just could not explain it.

But it was like that night when Calemore had stolen the bloodstaff and the book.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” he said, his voice a pure song. “My name is Gavril, and I bring thirty thousand souls to assist you in your war against evil.”

Then, one of the Parusite women stepped sideways. Not deliberately. It was just too crowded, and standing idly was boring, tiring. Everyone was fidgeting ever so slightly, and there was nothing wrong about that. But as she moved, Amalia could see behind her.

There was a taciturn man with a long moustache there, a big, fat boy that looked frightened, and another, skinny lad
with ancient eyes, radiating the same timeless ease as Gavril. He looked even more modest than the other man, except for the object he was holding in his right hand.

A perfect glass rod, topped with claws.

Her bloodstaff.

CHAPTER 26

“Y
ou need blood,” Tanid said. “Fresh blood.

”Ewan looked around him. All he could see was wet grass.

On the far side of the valley, a few miles south of Bassac, a large, muscled arm of the enemy army was milling. One might almost think an early snow had fallen and clad the hillslopes in soft powder. But the illusion went away the moment the large patch of white moved and shifted and spread tentacles.

Tanid’s eyes were glazed with grim determination. “We need a corpse then.”

Only they did not have a corpse. Tanid’s eternal eyes spoke,
We will have to create one
.

Ewan stared at the god who called himself Gavril, and did not like him very much right then. If this war was only about him, Ewan would have left him to his own devices and random twists of luck. But it was more than just that. It was about the people of the realms, and for some strange reason, Ewan felt a need to be their champion. The same people who had shunned and feared him.

Human sacrifice sounded wrong, no matter what, even if it meant providing munition for the bloodstaff. The sleek rod was empty. Ewan still had not fully figured out how its magic
worked, but the blood part was rather simple. You needed regular supplies of warm red, or it would not fire. The fields around the town were littered with old, bloated, and half-eaten carcasses of both livestock and refugees, but they were not
fresh enough
, it seemed.

A tiny part of him was excited to see the ancient weapon in action. He wanted to see how it behaved, what kind of damage it could render, what range it had. He was imagining it spewing wild bursts of crimson fire; he imagined it shaking violently in his arms, straining his muscles. He imagined the sound of thunder, great, splitting peals, and a whoosh of air flattening the grass stalks around him and raising a ring of dust. He imagined its red arrows fleeting in a shallow arc halfway across the battlefield and mowing down enemy troops with indiscriminate lack of emotion.