The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (71 page)

His feet crunched toward the leaders of the Naum tribes. They spoke an ancient language, unheard in the realms for countless generations, but his mind translated the words perfectly. The elders feared him, too. All of them. In their hearts, the legend of a man who carried the bloodstaff went back thousands of years, and nothing Ewan could do would change it.

But they listened to him. They obeyed.

Stopping a host their size with nothing more than his appearance spoke greatly of what Calemore had achieved during his seclusion in the north. It saddened him to learn these men had traveled so far from their homes just to participate in meaningless carnage so their leader could become a deity. They had left everything behind and come south. They had no idea how to plow and till the fields of Athesia and Caytor. They knew nothing about husbandry. They were sick and weak and hungry, and many of their women and children had died during the journey, left behind, lost, or killed.

Still, their society was huge and remained largely intact. There was hope for them.

Ewan knew he had to provide that hope. Take them away from this madness, isolate them.

They are not my people
, he thought.
But then, I am the only one who can help them now. I am the only one who can stop this war
.

The elders cast their gazes to the ground. Their behavior reminded him of the Oth Danesh. The same ingrained fear, the same animal instincts rooted in through the random viciousness of their ruler.

I could send them back north
, Ewan figured. They would obey. They would follow the roads north until the roads ran out. Then they would walk through the wilderness until they reached their far, secluded land. Their return would be murderous. The realms had been picked clean, villages burned and abandoned, fields left fallow or trampled dead. The Naum folk would not find any food or supplies along the way, and moving such a large army would lead to more conflicts, more killing against whoever they met.

He could do it. Remain the monster that he was. Or he could try to redeem his blood-drenched soul. His clothes were dark brown, stained with old death he hadn’t bothered cleaning, because he wanted a reminder of what he had done.

Ewan looked back one last time, toward Roalas. Jarman and Lucas were standing in the snow, watching him. A sizable body of the Parusite heavy cavalry, led by one of their dukes, was keeping a safe distance from the Naum people. Ewan wondered what they were trying to prove. That they hadn’t just been saved from total defeat? Maybe they were making sure no angry mob would storm toward the northerners and cause more grief. It didn’t really matter.

Behind the rider, there were still more troops, soldiers collecting rubbish, dragging the corpses away and picking them
clean, folding old, filthy tents, taking them back into the city barracks. On the walls, hundreds lined the crenelations, staring dumbly. Maybe one of them was the king. Amalia might be there somewhere, too. He did not care about any of them.

He knew what he had to do. Best if he set about it.

“Follow me.” He motioned to the elders. Bent forward, cradling the bloodstaff in his whole hand, he began furrowing through the snow, heading west, into the Safe Territories, the new home of the Naum people.

CHAPTER 51

S
ergei sat on Adam’s throne, staring toward the entrance. Apart from the old, seemingly immortal adviser at his side, and several royal guards, the vast hall was empty and cold. He had not bothered with fires, and the winter’s bite was seeping through the thick masonry.

Sergei wondered how Theo could endure standing in one place for so long, so patiently. He must have tendons made from iron. No matter how long he was required to wait on the king, he did so without complaining.

“When she enters, I must ask you not to speak. Not one word,” Sergei muttered, not looking at the adviser.

Theo swallowed noisily, wetting his mouth. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Sergei reached for the gilt goblet resting on the floor, by the throne. He groaned as he pushed his ribs against the armrest, feeling blood gush into his head. The goblet was empty. Well, perhaps it was for the best. Servants watched him warily, uncomfortable.

Sergei didn’t care.

It had been several weeks since some unassuming youth named Ewan had ended the war. One day, they were all losing, and the next, the Naum forces had halted their offensive and
were waiting to be taken away to the Safe Territories. At first, Sergei had been surprised, shocked, but now he just pondered the outcome.

What did it matter where that army was going, as long as it no longer sowed destruction? The Safe Territories had been a homeland for his settlers in the past two decades, but even they had not been able to restore faith to all the holy places. Most of the cities remained in ruins, and the Territories were a shadow of their past glory. Now, with half his troops dead or dying, he didn’t have the privilege of sending anyone there. He would need all of the people in the south, to make sure the realm did not starve.

The priests might lament all they wanted, and maybe it was blasphemy, but he did not care. He could not bring himself to summon empathy for the plight of the patriarchs. Their battle was over. The realms had fought their war of religion—and lost.

Instead, they had been saved by magic.

Not that long ago, every Parusite would regard even the slightest rumor of magic with distrust. They would openly dislike the Sirtai, and the priests would hunt down anyone who showed magical skills. Now, even the more fanatic soldiers loudly blessed a scrawny boy possessed of almost indestructible power. Everything their nation had been built upon, churned into mud, like the wet, bloody snow under their feet.

It was good that Ewan was taking the Naum people to the Safe Territories. It was the only sensible option. Going back north would have meant that huge host trampling the realms dead a second time, ruining what little was left. Going into no-man’s-land was the best choice. Faith would have to survive. It would have to endure in people’s hearts.

Roalas was coming to terms with its near ruin. Soldiers were busy hunting down criminals, subduing riots, and securing the food stores. No matter how grim the situation, men would always find ways to profit, and he would not stand for it.

The mixed armies were recuperating, licking their wounds. Almost every house, every bed in the city had someone wounded lying there, resting or festering. The unity he had hoped to achieve, the unity Emperor Adam had tried to bring to the realms, was happening because of a great, costly tragedy. People were too tired to worry about who followed who, for once. Not that Sergei had any illusions about the future. Once the terror of the war faded, the nations would remember their mistrust and fear of one another. The Athesians would not forgive him the execution of Lady Lisa. The Parusites would not forget the death of their prince.

Spring would be grim, the next autumn and winter even more so. Sergei’s head hurt when he tried to grasp the enormity of losses and damages. He had lost an entire cadre of skilled warriors, and thousands of farmers and craftsmen across Athesia had died fleeing the northern menace. There would be a great shortage of labor and experience, and he feared hunger and banditry.

But somehow, this sorry little place would live on. It would seem that Athesia was a special place. It had been invaded and pillaged so many times in the recent years, and yet, it clung to life, stubbornly, like a weed. Despite all the misery and suffering, Roalas would survive. And the land and people around it would follow its lead, crippled and weak, yet alive.

Once, he would have cherished the challenge. He would have embraced the responsibility.

He no longer cared.

His heart had no more room for grief. Losing his father, his son, and now his sister was simply too much. Athesia was the bane of his family. He was tired of all this tragedy. He sorely missed his wife, his remaining children. He wanted to go home, to leave this madness behind.

Which was why the upcoming meeting was critical.

The door of the hall opened. Giorgi stepped in. “Your Highness?”

Sergei took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “Bring her in.”

Several armed men in the livery of his house guard stepped in first, holding ornamental halberds. Following in their wake was a slim woman in a silver-white dress. The cursed daughter of the cursed former emperor of this sorry place.

Amalia.

She had surrendered to him. She was his vassal. Officially, she was the governess of Athesia, and that meant she might run this place, if he let her.

She walked with a dutiful, slow step, surrounded by those men. Her face was stern, her gaze locked somewhere above his head. But he could not see any defiance, any rancor. Just grimness. Maybe the same kind of expression that wrinkled his own features.

“Your Highness,” she said, bowing.

Sergei waited, watching her. This was the first time he was seeing his enemy. This was the first time he had come face-to-face with the woman who had caused him so much pain. Just a silly girl. “Lady Amalia.”

“You have called for me.” Her voice was steady. He had to admire that.

Sergei flicked a quick glance at Theo. The old man was staring at the former empress, but his lips were pressed shut. “Were you there when my sister died?” he asked.

Amalia hesitated. “No, Your Highness. She led the troops into battle. I didn’t see her fall.”

Sergei shifted his weight. “Were you in any way involved in the death of my son, Prince-Heir Vlad?”

The girl lowered her eyes, and their gazes locked. Her eyes looked moist now. “No, Your Highness.”

He rubbed his chin. He remembered the day he had walked into this chamber, facing the old adviser, telling him, in that slow, melancholic voice, that his son had been killed. His chest tightened, air coming in a reedy whisper up his throat. He remembered Lisa’s execution. She had been dignified to the very end, unafraid, and she insisted on convincing him that her daughter had not been involved in Vlad’s murder. Amalia’s hands were clean, she had not been involved, the woman had pleaded, even as she stared unblinking, unflinching at the headsman’s sword.

Adam took my father. Lisa took my son. This girl hasn’t harmed me. Who do I blame for Sasha’s death? Myself
.

“I am willing to put all our past grievances behind us. As negotiated in the peace agreement between us, Athesia will remain a vassal state of the Parusite kingdom, with rights equal to a duchy or a princedom. You will govern the region in my name. Will you uphold this pledge?”

Amalia tried to stop herself from crying. It was not dignified. She was Adam’s daughter, and she could not be seen crying in front of anyone.

But this man had killed her mother. This man had ruined her realm. Destroyed her dreams, her nation, everything.

Amalia knew she could refuse his offer. She could decide rebellion and resistance were better than a lifetime of servitude. The Athesians would rise against the invader, and sooner or
later, the Parusites would be forced to leave. True, she would be going back on her word, but what did words mean anyway? King Sergei had killed her mother after signing the peace treaty. He had broken the agreement first.

The Parusites were weak and demoralized. Thousands had perished in the war against Naum, and they didn’t have the necessary force to upkeep the king’s reign, even bolstered by those religious fools and their Borei mercenaries. Amalia needed only to refuse his offer, and there would be war in Athesia once more. She was certain her nation would win this time. The Eracians were badly battered, fighting their own war against the nomads. Caytor was in upheaval, it seemed, with the High Council in a state of bloody feud. No one would interfere now, and her people would fight against the enemy, and they would defeat the Parusites.

The price was quite small. Her own life.

Sergei was trying to buy off the murder of her mother with peace. Once, she wouldn’t even have wasted a moment considering his words. She would have laughed in his face. But this man, this king had tried to make life better for Athesians even after his son had been killed in this very city. This king had offered her peace, not once but twice, having seen his father and firstborn killed by her family.

That galled.

That was wrong.

No one could have such morality.

So why had he not stayed his hand and spared her mother? Weakness? Anger? Revenge? Did it matter? Nothing would bring her back. The only thing left was how she intended to observe her mother’s death. Through childish defiance or hard, painful compromise. Like Father did, when he’d offered peace to those who had tried to assassinate him so many times.

And yet…after all he had been through, Sergei was willing to compromise, willing to forgive. He was brave enough to offer a second chance. He had what it took to be a king, to be an emperor, she realized with profound bitterness in her soul. She knew she stood in the shadow of someone better, greater than her. Someone she could never best.

She finally understood the terrible price of authority.