The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (41 page)

One of the aides murmured something in Bogomir’s ear. The archduke nodded. On the other side of the room, the crowd stirred, nervous, restless. All of these men wanted their chance to prove their worth in waging war, at least over a beautifully drawn map, but no one dared interrupt him. The Siege of Roalas had scarred their lips shut.

In a way, it was a good thing. But even the king needed advice sometimes.

“Your Highness,” someone interrupted.

Sergei raised his eyes. Bisected by a shaft of daylight streaming from a side window so that his legs were bathed in autumn silver and his torso left in a mute shadow, one of his court aides stood near the throne hall doors, looking hesitant.

“What is it, Ruslan?” The man was a very distant cousin, Sergei remembered.

“Head Talker Svetlana kindly requests your presence at the dungeons, Your Highness.”

A low murmur spread through the lordly lot. Bogomir shot an angry glance at the aide, challenging his intrusion.

Sergei scratched his head. After the death of his son, he had been too distraught to worry about the minute details of his rule, like who ran his questioners. Very practically, Sasha had appointed one of her own officers. Administration must never cease, the king’s pain notwithstanding.

“That urgent?” he grumbled. “Anything else you wish to tell me before I delay my war preparations?” The head talker believed she could order everyone into submission.

Ruslan hesitated. Then he shook his head. “No, Your Highness. But it is quite urgent.”

Sergei looked at Giorgi. “What have you planned for me?”

The adjutant smiled dryly. “Your Highness, Under-Patriarch Evgeny wishes to discuss this year’s preparations for the Autumn Festival. He believes the blessing of Vlad’s Temple should coincide with the celebrations. He also wants to talk about the comba—”

“Yes, yes,” Sergei said impatiently. He had done enough for the clergy already. And he would not open that temple until every last detail was perfect. He glanced at his frightened distant cousin. The lad looked rather uncomfortable for an unimaginative aide. Perhaps Sveta did not want his nobles to overhear the message. Very well. Sergei rose. His dukes quickly followed. “We will resume this meeting in an hour. Borya, with me.”

Stretching his legs, Sergei led out of the hall, his lieutenant of the guard and four other soldiers in tow, their armor polished, their capes twirling. It was an impressive sight for all those who needed impressing, he knew.

“Your Highness,” Ruslan spoke, stepping with him but keeping back out of deference, “apparently, the head talker has information about the death of your son.”

Sergei halted abruptly. One of the guards almost collided into him. He spun wildly, and the aide cringed. “Vlad’s death?” A storm of emotions swept him, and he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. They itched with anxiety.

Ruslan swallowed. “Your Highness, she asked me to tell you this when you were on your own. But only she has all the details. I apologize.”

Sergei glanced back toward the hall. His court was standing like a gaggle of bored housewives, trying to interpret his gestures and motions, now that he was outside their hearing. He was glad the clerk had not mentioned anything earlier. He was not sure how he would have reacted. Then again, Sveta was a very meticulous woman, and she must have instructed Ruslan about his message very carefully. Entice the king; make no scene.

He did not quite remember the route through the palace, only that he found himself in a small, damp room with Sveta, several talkers, and a cheerful, whiskered man who seemed all too happy about his predicament. Most people under the scrutiny of the talkers usually spent their last moments murmuring prayers, talking nonsense, and smelling of feces. Not this fellow.

“Your Highness,” Sveta said, bowing, “I am sorry to intrude on your time. But I have vital information about the death of your son. I felt it was important enough to ask you to see me here.”

Sergei tried to focus his thundering mind. “Please.” His voice sounded thin.

Sveta pointed at the prisoner. “This man was apprehended in Gasua five weeks back. He was a member of a small rebel cell working in the city, trying to spread fear and dissidence. Apparently, they were not content with just shouting slogans
against you; they tried to recruit people into their band, they assassinated those who cooperated with the Crown, and they even did a fair share of looting, rape, and roadside banditry to finance their mission. Our forces finally put an end to their activity recently. Most of these rebels were killed, but some surrendered. We thought they ought to be hanged publicly, and we got the ropes soaped, when this vermin here said he knows who ordered the death of the prince heir.” She coughed. “Your Highness.”

Sergei was staring intently at the whiskered man, but he was just leering, glaring back, totally unafraid. Either he was totally mad or he knew something that could save his miserable life. Well, his gamble had worked so far. They had spared him the noose and shipped him here, whole and without any bruises. That could change at any moment.

“You know who killed my son?”

The man nodded, clicking his tongue.

Sergei took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Tell me.”

The prisoner licked his lips, then casually flicked a roll of spit toward Sergei.

Sveta nodded at her talkers. One of them grabbed the prisoner in a headlock, and soon, the man was purple and wheezing into a hairy forearm choking his scrawny neck, a quivering thread of spit hanging from his lips. A second man gently removed a spiked hammer from his belt.

“Thank you, Sveta.” Sergei stopped the maiming before it happened. The head talker had done a commendable job so far. He did not want any confession under torture. He wanted this man to tell him the truth. “What is your name?”

“Alice,” the man croaked, then coughed loudly.

“That’s a girl’s name.” Sergei pointed toward a chair, and the third talker slid it over. He sat down.

“No lies, swear. Alice is me name. Me mom wanted a daughter,” the man gargled. He tried to sound cocky, but Sergei could sense his fear.

“Release him,” Sveta ordered.

Sergei clasped his hands. They were steady. Strange. “Now, tell me.”

Alice was massaging his neck. “Swear, Your Lordship. I’m telling the truth, honest.”

“People in your position tend to be inventive if it saves them from the gallows. Your luck has just run out. You’d better confess now, or things will just get worse for you.”

“Promise you’ll let me go free, Your Lordship,” Alice rasped.

Sergei leaned against the crude backrest. He was totally unprepared for this. He had never expected anyone to come forward and claim any knowledge about his son’s death. He had assumed Vlad had been killed in the confusion of the battle, or maybe as retribution, but he had reconciled the idea he would never learn the truth.

And now this.

Only a madman would embrace his wrath. Or a condemned fool who had nothing to lose.

Sergei sighed, feeling tired, defeated. “Please, I really do not have patience for this.”

Their eyes locked. The cockiness that had colored the man’s silvered cheeks was gone now. Almost humbly, the prisoner nodded, still rubbing his neck.

“I understand, Your Lordship.”

“Good. You will tell me everything you know. If what you tell turns out to be true, you will be released. You will swear an oath to the Crown, and you will become a loyal citizen of
Athesia. However, if this turns out to be a ruse, your death will be a slow one.”

Alice swallowed audibly, a wet, slimy sound. He frowned, uncertain, eyes flickering toward Sveta and back. “So I tell you the truth, you let me go?”

Sergei sighed. “Yes.”

The prisoner cocked his head. “So all me sins are pardoned, eh? Your word as a king?”

Sveta was waiting for a cue to bludgeon this fool, but Sergei would not allow it. “Now, tell me who killed my son.”

Alice tried that cheerful expression from earlier but realized it would not do. “I don’t know who killed your son as it was, Your Lordship. No, wait, wait, wait! I know who ordered it. I know who ordered it.” He was holding his hands above his head, the spiked hammer just inches away.

Sergei felt his stomach roil. “Tell me.”

He burst into the Garden of Joy, trampling flowers, kicking dirt. Lady Lisa watched him with a passive, resolved look on her face. There was no fear there, or surprise.

“Your Highness,” she greeted, rising. “The flowers will die in the autumn anyway, no need to kill them early.”

He huffed, barely able to control his wrath, his disgust, his sense of betrayal. “Did you order my son killed the day I took Roalas?”

She was silent for a moment, watching him intently. “Yes, I did.”

Sergei closed his eyes. He could hear Borya unsheathing his sword. “Put it away,” he hissed.

How could she have done that? And then greet him so coolly, so regally in the throne room? All those talks he had with her, all those noble, compassionate ideas? Was it all posturing?
Was all that one giant lie? Had she played him all along? Was he such a lousy judge of character?

Sasha had been right all along. This woman was the enemy.

“Why?” he asked, trying to keep tears at bay.

“Your Highness, you know why. You were given terms. You broke them. You paid the price.”

It’s my fault
, he thought maniacally.
I killed Vlad by storming the city. They warned me. They did just what they had said they would do
. He had known that from the beginning, and he had deliberately condemned his firstborn. Because the realm was above any one man, including the prince heir.

The pain in his chest did not lessen.

“You killed my son!” He wailed.

Lady Lisa was adamant. She was Adam’s widow after all. What else should he expect?

“No, I did not. But I sent soldiers to kill him, because you set out to destroy what my dear husband had spent eighteen years building. You decided family honor was more important to you than the lives of your family. It was your choice. It had always been your choice, Your Highness.”

Sergei realized his palms were bleeding, his nails gouging deep. He had allowed Amalia to live, as his vassal. He had given her peace. Had he known this before, he would never have accepted this miserable peace idea. He had been duped. Sasha was right, like always.
Sorry, Sister, I failed you
.

He was done being the weak, silly king.

He was done being the fool. He was done being nice and compassionate.

Adam had taken everything from him. His father, his son. No more. He would sort this out the old Parus way, blood for blood. He would honor the fool’s peace, because he was
an honorable king, but he had no obligation toward this evil woman. His mercy had just run out.

He wiped tears away. “Lady Lisa, for the murder of Prince Heir Vlad of Parus, I condemn you to death. You will be executed on the first day of autumn. You may pray if you wish. Borya, escort the prisoner to her chambers.”

CHAPTER 29

N
othing would spoil the ceremony now. Not the smoke, not the moans from the wounded, the grumbles from bored, inebriated, and frightened soldiers, not the distant screams of battle, not even the bad music from a traveling band that just happened to stumble into their camp.

Bart would see the heroes of Eracia honored properly.

Last night, everyone had drunk their share to the changing of the season, knowing all too well what the coming of the autumn meant. Shorter days, colder mornings, more rain, more disease. And still, the Kataji held Somar.

Bart had spent time equally shared between his officers and the regular troops and a quick gamble with the Borei. Junner had assured him they had a surprise for him this morning, so he was somewhat eagerly and apprehensively looking forward to that. He had played the majestic and benevolent part of the nation’s ruler in absence of another ruler, ingraining the very real possibility that once the war ended, he might be the best candidate to become the monarch. It was a very vain, self-indulgent thought, but to stop now would mean throwing away all he had achieved so far, making each and every death meaningless, both the assassinations he had bought as well as
the glorious, courageous sacrifice of the Eracian troops in the city’s ruined districts.

Now, he was doing something even more meaningful: decorating distinguished fighters for their valor and outstanding performance in the field of battle. Not many men, and those carefully handpicked by their officers.

There was Maks, born in a border village near the Territories, to a Parusite mother and an Eracian father, who was extremely good at sneaking behind enemy soldiers and slicing their throats open. Smiling Maks, his comrades called him, and he claimed seventeen Kataji dead. Rusty was the best crossbowman in the force, with a steady hand and great accuracy. According to various reports, Rusty had killed dozens of nomads with a heavy bolt through their eyes. Jochen was nowhere near as lethal as his friends, but he had saved three women from a burning house. That was just as important as slaughtering the tribesmen, Bart knew, because he needed brave men to dash inside burning buildings and search for Eracians.