The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (60 page)

CHAPTER 42

K
eep an eye on her
, Jarman told himself.

Amalia’s reaction to her mother’s death was strange. Reserved, almost emotionless. He could remember his own anguish when his third mother had died, and so he was worried about Amalia. Quite a bit.

“Keep an eye on her,” he told Timothy, the young lieutenant who used to be James’s squire. The boy had not lost his innocence, but he had been well fattened in battle hardship. A man was emerging from his youthful countenance, one with few words and many strong deeds. Someone useful to have around.

Timothy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He understood what was at stake.

If Amalia decided to retaliate, the brittle alliance between the Parusites and Athesians would shatter. It wasn’t enough that they all might die soon, trampled by the unstoppable Naum army; they did not need a bloody conflict among themselves a handful of miles from Roalas. It might be Sergei’s rule now, but it was Amalia’s city, her people.

This close to the capital of Athesia, news traveled much faster. They had ample reports about what was happening in the city. Sergei was beefing up the defenses. Any boy strong
enough to hold a sword was given a uniform and asked to join the soldiers manning the walls. The streets had been cleared, the people sent south. No matter what the Athesians felt about their new ruler, he was taking his responsibility seriously. He was protecting his new subjects like he would his own nation, and he was sending convoys of women and children south to Parus.

Which was why the people of Roalas had not rebelled against him over Lady Lisa’s execution. That, or the greater fear of the huge white army swarming across the land held them docile and obedient.

But that did not mean Amalia might not decide to take revenge. It might be a stupid act of defiance, one last suicidal attempt at righting wrongs that could not be remedied. She might choose to strike against the Parusites or just flee. Maybe try to kill the princess with her own hands. Either way, the fragile unity would break. That would mean more chaos, more dying.

Even without the former empress exacting her payback for her mother’s death, the situation was lousy. Since Xavier’s death, half the Caytorean troops had deserted, led by one Colonel Gilles. Master Hector had tried to stop him, and the scuffle had left more than eighty dead. A fair share of Athesians had also taken to other roads, away from the fighting. Even some of Gavril’s men had abandoned the holy pilgrimage.

The people of Athesia tried to mingle with the troops and pilgrims, trying to secure protection or earn an odd coin for some hard work, but mostly, they were just a burden, slowing everyone down, draining the resources. Still, out of some odd sense of responsibility or maybe fear of mutiny among the local legions, the king’s sister was marching them on, toward Roalas, toward some temporary safety.

Jarman laid a gentle hand on Timothy’s shoulder. Months ago, he would have been appalled by his own gesture. Now, he had learned the importance of these friendly pats and handshakes. He couldn’t let his temple education ruin his work. After all, he had come here to avenge his third mother.

Would that ever happen?

Most likely not.

So what should he do? Flee like that coward Gilles?

The lieutenant nodded and walked away from the makeshift command tent. He did not venture too far. A cook was burning small black sausages over a fire, and a long line of junior officers was waiting for its share. Several Red Caps and soldiers in the service of Duke Yuri were making sure there was no jostling or thievery.

Jarman spared the sorry day camp another quick glance before ducking back into the second tent, the one where Amalia and Lucas waited for him.

Adam’s daughter was sitting in a simple canvas chair, staring at the red-hot brazier below her feet, eyes glazed with images only she could see. Her maid was feeding her daughter, a pale breast peeking out from under thick woolen blankets. His life slave and tutor and friend was standing, watching the entrance, face unreadable in the stifling murk.

Amalia couldn’t see the princess anymore. Sasha had dismissed her, and for all she was concerned, Amalia was just traveling south with the rest of them before taking her role in Roalas. She didn’t bother investigating the death of the warlord, or the rumors of an assassination attempt against Amalia. Sasha had one objective, and that was bringing as much of her army back to the capital. Everything else was secondary now.

For Amalia, that meant no closure for her mother’s death. She could not confront the princess or maybe even discuss it
with her. Who knew, perhaps that would actually help defuse the situation. Instead, left alone to her festering, Amalia was breeding her rancor, her guilt, and her desire for violence. Jarman was worried.

His plan had not only fallen apart, it threatened to transform into an ugly, dangerous monstrosity.

They were losing the war, and he might never get his own vengeance. Like Lucas had said, the war was not going to be won with the bloodstaff.

But how then?

Scouts reported Calemore almost two days behind. He was regrouping after a deadly fight. Apparently, that lad Ewan had magic.

He was a Special Child, then.

Jarman wanted to cling to that. Jarman wanted to hope. But nothing seemed to matter. Gavril was behaving like a frightened animal. The troops only followed orders because they feared being killed for disobedience. Every day, more and more Caytoreans fled to their realm.

Now, no one could predict what would happen when Amalia finally returned to Roalas.

“You should eat, Jarman,” Agatha chided.

Jarman rubbed a hand down his cheek. He had grown thinner lately. He was using magic, and that bled his strength worse than the cold and a meager diet. He was straining his own life-force. He was constantly tired, constantly weak.

He smiled. His finger touched the platter of rye bread and a block of pig lard, studded with spruce seeds. Well, he was still considered important enough, it seemed.

“I want to talk to Amalia, please.”

The once empress glanced up sharply, sniffed. The girl was recovering from a mild illness, on top of everything. Being wet
and cold wasn’t good for anyone’s health. “Agatha stays. She is not going out there into the cold, into that chaos, with all those animals.”

“Lucas will protect—” he began.

“She stays.” Another sniff.

Jarman sat down opposite Adam’s daughter, the warmth from the red coals in the rusty brazier seeping into his shins even through the layers of tweed. It was a pleasant sensation. He thought he should be somewhat apprehensive of Amalia’s sickness, but the exposure to the filth of the realms had numbed him to his former strict insistence on hygiene.

“I am worried about you, Amalia,” he admitted, trying to ignore the maid.

Amalia squared her jaw. “Are you? Well, use your magic and kill Sasha. That will make me better.”

Jarman grimaced at the thin, wet wall of the tent. Just another stretch of fabric away, the princess was discussing war affairs with Sergei’s dukes, Captain Speinbate, and the scattering of Athesian legion commanders still left with the army.

“You need to look at the broader picture,” he said.

“You are a hypocrite,” she accused, venom dripping from her voice, eyes blurred with tears.

He tried to keep his face straight, angry at her words. He had come to the realms to avenge a woman who wasn’t even his own mother, twenty years after the deed. He had put aside his fury until the right moment, and wanted her to understand his motivation.

“My nation does not exist anymore. Athesia has been reduced to a sorry column of starving people, a handful of soldiers still deluded with the glory of my father’s victories, and mercenaries who try to blackmail me at every turn, not that I
exist anymore. Once you solve all these problems for me, Jarman, I will look at the broader picture.”

“From what I heard, your mother did commission the death of the king’s heir.”

Amalia snarled at him. “I know what happened.”

“But that does not mean—”

“Amalia,” Lucas spoke, his voice deep.

Everyone turned to look at him. Even Agatha’s girl stirred.

The blue-faced Anada was silent for a moment. “Nothing can change death. Nothing can change how you feel about it. How you feel about your nation. Princess Sasha may have dismissed you from her service, but you still have a duty toward your people, and titles make no difference.”

Amalia wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “You may ignore reality, wizard, but I cannot.”

Lucas didn’t move or even blink. “Do you think your father would have given up now?”

Jarman saw the girl change. Her face turned hard, locked with emotion and deep thought. She opened her mouth, but then bit her response back. A frown crept onto her features, twisting her youthful, exhausted beauty.

“So what do you recommend, Lucas?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“If you think the royal house of Parus has done you an injustice, then you should seek your vengeance. But not now. Not today. Let us end this war first. Let us win against Calemore. For all your self-pity, you are still a leader of these people. They look up to you for support. You cannot abandon them now for your own little vendetta. If we somehow defeat the White Witch, you will have your chance for justice against the princess, or the king. Just remember it is your family that robbed King Sergei of both his father and his son.”

Amalia leaned forward on her knees, staring into the fire again. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. “So what do I do now?”

“Talk to Master Guilliam. He claims to have devised a new weapon based on his earlier models. If we get to Roalas safely, he will be able to modify the existing siege machines to fire much more effective, more lethal loads. Master Hector is still loyal to you. Harness that to your advantage. Princess Sasha is the provisional ruler, but she is not liked by the common troops or by the people. Make sure you regain your old popularity, so that the king and his sister never think again of sidelining you, for the fear of rebellion.”

Amalia was afraid, Jarman realized. “They might just decide to fight again, and I will be defeated. Again.”

Lucas shook his head. “Not after this war. The Parusites have lost huge numbers. The king’s lords will have to return to their own country within the next year. Athesia will be left with its own people, its own troops. Sergei will not be able to hold this new princedom without your help. So, it is you who must decide the future of Athesia. Will you ruin everything over the death of your mother? Did King Sergei ruin Athesia over the death of his son? Or did he give this land another chance? Gave
you
another chance? He rose above it. Is he a better person than you?”

Jarman realized his silent, formidable friend had been doing much more than hurling magic against the Naum troops. He had been studying politics, trying to predict the actions of the local rulers. Jarman wished he had done the same, feeling slightly ashamed. He had focused too hard on his frustration and the magical piece of this war, neglecting the people. Perhaps he needed many more years away from the Temple of Justice before he could handle the ordinary continental people.

The former empress sniffed again. “Thank you, Lucas.”

The wizard nodded solemnly. “You will excuse us. Jarman and I must talk.”

Jarman realized Lucas had just done all the hard work for him, and there was nothing else he could add. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, he edged out of the tent, back into the winter cold. Sasha’s officers and Sergei’s nobles were milling, their meeting ended.

The camp was seething with activity, mostly because it was too cold for men to be idle. He could see one of the olifaunts lumbering down a narrow lane dug between two rows of old, patched tents, its gray hide wrapped in blankets. Too many olifaunts had succumbed to the cold, but at least they had provided everyone with ample meat—for an appropriate payment to the owners, of course.

Fires were coming alive, almost like glowworms in a summer forest, a blessing after so many weeks of rain and storms and endless marches. Sergei was sending food, timber, healers, iron, trying to help the retreating army as much as he could. Wounded soldiers were being taken away in carts, civilians shuffled away so they wouldn’t drain the resources or distract the troops. Even the whores were herded south, because they, too, were a burden and caused fighting and strife among the troops. King Sergei might have defeated Amalia, maybe even humiliated her into submission, but he was serious and committed about defending his new scrap of territory.

“How do we win this war, then?” Lucas asked suddenly.

Jarman stepped away from the noise.

“I do not know,” he whispered, ashen-colored snow crunching under his boots. “Ewan?”

Lucas pointed with his head. The boy was standing in hip-high snow just past the last row of tents. He did not seem
to mind the chill, his shoulders sagging with only a thin shirt speckled in old blood. The lad had not changed it since that day he’d waded into the enemy lot and butchered them with his bare hands. Bought them all a few days of respite. Maybe saved them all.

“We must not push him,” Lucas warned, as if he knew what Jarman wanted to suggest.

Jarman bunched his fists, released them. His fingers tingled with cold, or maybe chagrin. Within hours, the scouts would probably report the enemy tide approaching again, and they would be forced to break camp and start their torturous journey once again, sleepless, hungry, hopeless.

Jarman almost wished it to end. He was miserable. He hated the uncertainty. He hated having to hear the bugles cry into the night, hated watching men limp through slush and slip on ice, with no one stepping up to help them, hated seeing horses butchered for meat, their red innards smoking in the winter mornings. He hated the crushing despair, the stink that not even the cold could smother, the borderline violence in every set of eyes.

“We must do our best to protect him,” he said.

“Even if it means dropping our shield around Amalia?” Lucas countered.