The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (9 page)

Release the prisoners.

He remembered Amalia clinging stubbornly to her noble hostages. Then, he remembered letting all of them go home without any consideration for the future relations with Eracia and Caytor, choked with grief over the lost of his firstborn. Next, almost as a backlash, he had foolishly harbored the woe council, bringing shame and dishonor to his doorstep. All crucial players, and he had disregarded them, slighted them, ignored them.

On the other hand, Sasha had chosen to vent all her frustration against the several hundred common troops, city watchmen, and soldiers who had surrendered after the fall of Roalas. Their value as hostages was nonexistent. Their strategic
importance was nil. He might have gleaned some military information from them, but they could have hardly changed the political picture in any way, and with every day, it was less relevant, and they were less and less useful. Keeping them locked up was meaningless. They were a constant, unneeded reminder to the people of the city that their new king sought revenge. Of all the people he should have kept close by, those weren’t the Athesian prisoners.

He intended to rule Athesia properly. That meant peace and courage. Adam’s style.

Several hundred emaciated, defeated men would never make any difference in a battle. But the citizens of Roalas were watching, and rumors were already flying. He was going to do what Emperor Adam had done when he had taken the city: offer them mercy. A powerful weapon if you had enough courage to wield it.

Sergei knotted the reins on the pommel, clasped his gloved hands on it. He slanted his head ever so slightly, scanning the crowd, seeking defiance and hatred in those squinting eyes. He was waiting for an outburst of rage, a curse, anything that might make him doubt his decision. But all he saw was terrible weariness. The soldiers were exhausted, defeated, and resigned to their fate.

Sergei looked at Giorgi and nodded. His personal adjutant handed a royal missive to an Athesian harker. This had to be done with a proper ceremony, the king knew.

The other man opened his mouth and proclaimed loudly, “By the grace of His Highness, King Sergei, the king of Parus and Athesia, may the gods and goddesses protect him, you are hereby pardoned for your crime of insurrection against the Crown and released from prison.”

If Sergei had ever so slightly expected an excited breath of wonder from the crowd, he was disappointed. There was barely a shrug among the prisoners. A few of them tilted their heads, perked their ears, as if hearing something intriguing, but otherwise, they remained like they were, a forest of brittle human statues, swaying, shivering, scowling.

The silence stretched almost for too long. Then, in the second row, one of the soldiers raised a thin, grubby hand. Giorgi frowned, then glanced at Sergei, uncertain. As far as ceremony was concerned, this wasn’t a part of it.

“Speak,” Sergei said, surprised at the note of his own voice. It sounded harsh.

“We are free to go, my lord?” the prisoner asked.

Sergei took a deep breath.
My lord
. But he let it slide. “Yes. You are free to go. If you swear a solemn oath that will never raise arms against my people, or me. If you wish to remain in Athesia, then you must also swear fealty to the Crown.”

The prisoner let his hand drop. “That’s it?”

Sergei waved his hand. “Yes, that is it.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “I do not know what ideals you worship, or what you fear, so I cannot ask you to swear in the name of the gods and goddesses. But if you wish to leave the dank cells of the city, then you will promise to live peacefully and abide my law.”

“What if we refuse?” an unnamed face shouted.

Sergei could feel his retinue getting somewhat restless. Leather groaned as men shifted their stances, hands going to sword hilts. Anywhere else, this kind of insolence would be considered a grave insult against the king. But Sergei was long past caring about such trifles. Roalas was a dangerous, miserable city. A lack of honor was the least of his worries.

“If you refuse, then you will die,” he told the sorry audience.

“Then it’s fucking simple, isn’t it?” There was a growl in the crowd, and a man went down on his knees.

Slowly, one by one, the former soldiers knelt or bowed, acknowledging his terms. They did not say any wise words or recite any great promises. Sergei did not expect them to do anything of that sort. It would mean nothing. He didn’t need empty words. He needed Roalas’s sympathy and loyalty. He might lose these several hundred men, they might become rebels in a few weeks, but he would have the respect of the thousands of souls looking on behind him, clothiers, gardeners, bakers, and shoemakers.

“You may not remain in the city, though. You will be escorted to Keron or Gasua, whichever you prefer.”

The affair was over, and Sergei was glad to put it behind him. Parusite soldiers moved forward, gently but firmly driving the prisoners toward a long train of wagons waiting some distance away. A bloodless resolution to a sore situation. Sergei hoped there would be no scuffling or mad attempts by a few deranged souls to seize swords from his troops. He did not want bloodshed right after promising these men their freedom and giving them their lives back.

“You have done a very brave thing, Your Highness. I must say I am touched,” Genrik, the high scribe, confessed. His usually unforgiving eyes brimmed with regard for his liege.

Sergei nodded. He hoped today’s event would go into Genrik’s writing. So one day, long after he died, people might read about the mercy and benevolence of King Sergei. Right after reading about Adam the Godless.

That gave him no peace in this life, right then, though.

His son was still very much dead. The campaign in the north had taken a turn for the worse, with a bitter defeat against Amalia’s forces. Apparently, the girl’s miraculous
return had made her that much wiser and harder—and luckier. At least her half brother had died. That was some small consolation, although it meant Sergei would have to negotiate with the High Council now. No one could really predict how they would react to James’s demise. There might be a civil war in Caytor. Or they might turn their confusion against him. Sergei did not like the unpredictability of the whole thing.

He turned Marusya around and led back toward the city. Boris’s men spread about, their parade lances erect, flags hanging from blunted tops. Well, if needed, those staves could still clear a crowd at full gallop.

The scenes of the city were a colorful blur, his mind too preoccupied to notice any details. Maybe there were more people in the streets than usual, and maybe they were looking at him more favorably now. He didn’t really know. He had released those men because it was the right thing to do.

Theo waited for him outside the palace stables. The old man dictated a brutal agenda, and he was never daunted by the challenges of his duty. “Your Highness,” he spoke in his lazy voice, “Under-Patriarch Evgeny begs your audience.”

Sergei dismounted and handed the reins to Matvey. The clergy was simply refusing to budge. He would never be rid of them until he complied with their wishes, it seemed.

“I shall see him in an hour.” He acquiesced wearily.

Sergei felt tempted to let the priest petition him in the court room, but he thought it would be smarter to talk to him in private so he could later deny any demand the clergy made of him. He was not willing to agree to having the patriarchs raise their own holy army with only a loose affiliation to the Crown. That would be risky. He could not let them have it, at least not until he defeated Amalia.

For a moment, he wanted to see Lady Lisa and talk to her, but she had grown distant after learning the truth of her daughter’s return. Still, relentlessly, she pushed for peace and reconciliation. Sasha’s defeat was a great opportunity for that. Then again, honor called for revenge. The failure in Ecol was a tarnish on his image. Worse, it had much wider consequences than his hurt pride. Any weakness on his behalf was a signal for the Eracians, Caytoreans, nomads, and the tribes in the southern desert to try their luck against him, especially while he was weakened and distracted.

One great battle had gotten him rid of one of Adam’s offspring. Perhaps if he made another attempt, he could achieve Amalia’s death. Then, it would really be over. But his forces were stretched thin. If he moved any more Red Caps north, he risked leaving the countryside too exposed. He didn’t have enough forces to maintain order as well as fight a war, it seemed. Maybe he should muster his lords again.

Sergei threw his gloves on the table and plopped into a soft, massive chair in one of the private studies. Used to be Amalia’s, he thought. The corridor walls outside were scarred with deep gouges, as if someone had raked them with giant claws. A sign of a battle, but he could not think of any way an ax or a sword could make those marks.

Timur brought him refreshments, and Genrik sat behind the other desk, ready to scribble truths. Theo took his place next to him. Sergei felt talking to the priests was an entirely Parusite affair, but he wanted the old adviser around, because he was certain Theo would put the good of the city and the realm before anything else. He needed a clear, impartial mind in this meeting.

Soon thereafter, the lardy, massive torso of Under-Patriarch Evgeny squeezed through the doorframe amid much huffing.
Sergei found it fascinating how obese people breathed. They would often make several wheezing notes at the same time, as if they had several throats or noses fighting for air.

This was as private as he would allow himself to be with the priest. His stern upbringing was tugging at his spine, trying to make him bend in subservience and fear. Only he could not summon the old feelings of reverence for the patriarchs anymore.

“Your Holiness,” Sergei said.

“Your Highness,” the priest returned, out of breath. Timur politely placed a bowl of pear compote in front of the other man.

Sergei sampled his lizard tails and wine. “You wished to see me. I must presume it is urgent?”

Evgeny nodded, his neck wobbling like a gelled eel pie. “Indeed. I believe I must direct your attention to the presence of a holy man named Gavril at the outskirts of Keron.”

Sergei paused in midbite and put the sugared cube down. No pleasantries. This was not usually how the fat man went about his business. Normally, he would intone a few vague sayings, speak about morality and trying times, then try to weed cooperation from him. To be so blunt and direct meant he was more distressed than the stretched skin on his jowls let show.

Sergei had tried to ignore the story of a holy lunatic for a while now, hoping it would just go away. But almost like a spot of mold on a wall, it had blistered wider and bigger. He did not have reliable information on the man’s activities and intentions, but he seemed to be amassing a large force of followers. In itself, some extra righteousness in this godless land was not a bad thing, but the magnitude of the phenomenon worried Sergei.

Back home, he would have sent one of his dukes and his cavalry to scatter the rabble and hang the leaders. Crazy would-be prophets were nothing new. He remembered the stories of his youth. Almost every summer, there would be a rumor of some peasant getting divine blessing from the gods and goddesses. If the priests showed no interest in taking them away to a temple, they would usually end up hanging from a tree branch after their preachings turned too bitter for the locals or when they started inciting against the nobles.

There was not a wealthy child in Parus who hadn’t been told the tale of Mad Monk Fyodor, who had seduced Queen Sveta with his mystic powers. Not even his death had really dispelled the myth among the commoners. This Gavril might keep his influence among the small folk, but the background story was starkly similar.

Twenty years ago, the realms shook when a godless man came and broke all the rules. I do not need a holy man doing the same thing now
. “Should I be concerned?”

Evgeny slurped from his own goblet. “I have met this holy man.”

Sergei did not like that. He had assumed the priests would be interested in anyone challenging their authority on religion, but he had not expected Evgeny to take a personal interest. “Is he loyal to the Crown?”

The patriarch smiled faintly, as if the very question was blasphemy made by an unknowing child. “When faith shines brightly in one’s heart, even the sun’s glare is muted. Can we weigh one’s loyalty to their ruler against one’s love for the gods and goddesses?”

Yes, we can
, Sergei thought. “I will not tolerate any insurrection in Athesia. For whatever reason.”

Evgeny ahemed, and helped himself to more compote. “I believe this holy man has noble intentions.”

Sergei waited. He did not want to appear eager or concerned. He looked at Genrik and noticed the scribe was waiting, pen poised like a headsman’s blade. “Noble and
loyal
intentions?”

The priest tapped a silver spoon against his front teeth. “Gavril wishes to see faith prosper in the realms. That is all. He seeks unity among all the people of the realms. After all, we might disagree in our mundane matters, but we are all equal before the gods and goddesses. I am convinced Gavril is an honest man, and he may be blessed.”

“What is the purpose of our meeting, Your Holiness?” Sergei pressed.

“Gavril wishes to petition you, my king. He seeks audience with you.”

Sergei didn’t like this. Instantly, some deep instinct inside him revolted. It wasn’t quite fear that coursed through his veins, more sort of a feeling of unease, the kind you have when there’s a niggling thought picking at your conscience, vague and persistent.

“Your Highness, may I interject?” Theo piped in. When Sergei said nothing, the old man continued. “It would be prudent if you met this Gavril person. As all reports indicate, he has gathered almost thirty thousand souls at his camp outside Keron. That alone is reason enough to talk to him, if only because he commands a force that dwarfs the nearby town. If you can learn of his intentions, that might help you make the right decision.”