The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (58 page)

Even though he knew he would never force Raida into his bed, he still tried to see past the madness and misery, tried to imagine what her features might be like if she had eyes. But there was no beauty now. No, no. This was nonsense.

“I do not understand where she or you got this notion,” he heard himself utter, words dripping with bitterness, “but I am not that dreadful person written in your books. Those are not my memories. If they are, it all changes now. No more
abhorrent traditions and stupid rituals. It all stops now.” He approached his tutor. Naman looked really afraid now. “Find those babies.”

Ewan stormed out of the palace, walking fast. Behind him, he thought he heard a keening noise from Raida, a sort of cry only the condemned had, who feared more a postponing in their sentence than death itself.

He walked into the dusk, the sky a bruised purple above, shedding silent snowflakes on the quiet, strange world. Ewan paced fast, hard, following the narrow streets to the waterfront. There was something about the lake that beckoned him.

He spent the night standing on the frozen beach, listening to the wind ripple the slushy, shallow water, making the tiny rind of ice grate and the water underneath slosh and gurgle. Nothing living stirred, no fish or birds; there were no sounds from the city. Only abject silence.

At dawn, he began to figure it out.

With no shadows to disturb the landscape, he began to see a pattern. The hills all spread evenly out of the lake, almost as if raked with a giant comb. Rocks, veins of stone in the land, dips and gorges, they all slanted upward, pushed out of the water. Some of the contours were worn smooth by the weather, but in the soft, eerie gloom of predawn, he could see the shapes.

When the sun finally came out and painted the mounds brilliant white, the effect was lost, hidden again, and he could swear he stood at the edge of a huge leaden lake deposited there by centuries of rain and floods. Only he knew it was not so.

He returned to his prison. He found Naman and Raida sleeping on the floor, the girl curled tightly against the cold, covered in rags and blankets of sorts. The old man had removed his shirt, and Ewan could see his scars. The gray length of his hair coiled like a dead snake on the floor.

Ewan dragged one of his feet against the stone, and the fat magic wielder stirred almost instantly. Soon thereafter, the girl jerked awake, feeling about her, probing the black world that surrounded her. Ewan did not want to give Naman any chance to sober up.

“How was the lake made?” he asked.

The Oth Danesh pushed to his feet and tottered over to the table heavy with books. He picked up one of them and held it in front of him, almost like a shield.

“In the war, before we were banished.”

“What happened?”

The fat man hawked inside his mouth, then cleared his throat. “This was the last stand of your armies. You camped here with your remaining forces. But then, you elected a champion to fight in your name, and he stayed so he could cover your retreat. He was killed, obliterated.”

The lake was a crater, Ewan realized. Caused by a massive detonation. Something huge and powerful had hammered from the sky and blasted the landscape he saw around him now. The same thing that happened when you tossed a stone in the sand.

“Who did…I fight against?” Ewan wanted to know.

Naman shrugged. “The book does not name your foes.”

Oth Danesh cities have no names. Their enemies have no names
. He wondered if the people who had written the books had not deliberately skewed the truth, out of some ancient necessity that he could not begin to fathom.

“And my champion was slain?” he repeated.

His tutor nodded. “Yes. He was killed by magic. The magic that had created this place. But where there was once death, now there is life. This is the place of rebirth, a new beginning, where our nation will rise majestic once again. As you promised.”

There was a spasm in Ewan’s stomach, a small, stony knot that pulsed like a bird’s heart. He looked behind him and saw the flock of servants, waiting to bring in goat cheese, hot milk, strips of cured meat, and loaves of rye bread.

Ewan sat down in his chair opposite the two locals. The girl was cuing on the sounds, trying to figure out where he might be. Her thin robe had slipped off her shoulder, and he could see dusky flesh underneath. He averted his eyes, ashamed.

“You will keep reading until I know everything,” he told Naman. “And you, Raida, you will tell me anything and everything you see about the future, no matter how trivial.” He waited until the fat man translated. “We will do this as long as necessary.”

The girl chattered in an urgent tone.

“She asks whether you will acknowledge her as your wife.”

Ewan shook his head. “Not now. Perhaps one day. But first, I must have all the answers.”

That did not seem to satisfy her, and her lip quivered, but maybe it was just the chill. At least she did not cry now. Yes, she might be a woman, but he could not bring himself to do that. Not with her. Not after shattering his own heart twice already. He was done being a silly boy with silly notions.

“But her magic works—”

“There will be no bedding here,” Ewan insisted.

Naman exhaled. He took a few moments to wash his face and eat something, and then he sat himself down in front of his king. Raida was busy munching on a chunk of bread, still sitting on the hard floor. Ewan was too weary to bother telling her she could use chairs. Let these people figure out what they wanted. He wanted no part of it.

Answers, that was all he needed, and then he would be gone north. His guts clenched.

The earlier visit to the lake had calmed him a little, but now he felt the urgency in his soul returning, stronger than before. There was something else meaningful about that deadly crater. He would discover what it was, but that meant listening to more of what was written in
The Pains of Memory
.

More pain. Well, that was his burden.

“Continue reading,” he told Naman.

His tutor began droning, and Ewan closed his eyes and let the despair wash over him.

CHAPTER 43

A
malia stared at her hands. She could not believe her skin could be so soft. She had been certain her hands would never be soft again.

But becoming an empress again had absolved her of laundering duties, and after a while, the calluses had peeled off. She no longer had to worry about the biting cold, the scalding heat, the burning touch of lye, the chafe of rough clothes, the stink of sweat and urine, the raw pain in her wrists and elbows from massaging the heavy, sodden weights of wool and linen.

Her lower back no longer hurt. She was warm and comfortable. She had anything and everything to eat, anytime of day. Servants and bodyguards waited in her shadow, ready to obey. Whether she desired wine, a warm brick for her feet, or maybe a new fur cloak for her shoulders, they were there, at her disposal.

Strange how the human mind twisted itself around new realities, molded into them like a snail worming over a stone. She had endured her trial as Jerrica Nobody for so long she had almost gotten used to the harsh conditions, almost accepted the new world, the new life she had been given. Now that she was back where she belonged, she was almost uncomfortable. Not because of the opulence and safety, but the realization that
she had been reduced to a lowly, invisible peon and that she had borne it quietly and fearfully. Defiance was a powerful tool for the rich and sated. Less so when your life depended on scraps and shreds of someone’s mercy.

Dwelling too long on the past half a year was a foolish thing to do, she knew. A weak indulgence of a mind that wanted to torture itself with hard guilt. There was nothing she could or would have done differently, nothing wiser or bolder or more effective than just being a coward in hiding. She lived, and she was the empress once again, and that was all that mattered. She had a duty toward her people.

Shame was an awful burden, she knew. Best get rid of it.

The New Year had started with a dull ceremony overshadowed by Rob’s death. They had buried what was left of James’s friend in the frozen earth and then went about drinking and celebrating as only soldiers in a war could, trying to drown their fears in cheap liquor. No amount of ale and brandy could make anyone forget the fact Rob had died from some invisible, magical weapon.

They were all vulnerable, exposed, and there was nothing they could do about it. She only hoped Jarman’s shield would protect her and her half brother. But the story had spread, fortified by wild rumors and exaggerations. Common men did not really understand the threat of magic, so they did their best to cope through lies and mouthfuls of spirit. The end result was a damp feeling of helplessness that soured everyone’s mood.

Soon after the investor’s assassination, a horde of Red Caps had assailed Ecol, bashing themselves bloody against its three forts. Their attack had been a probe only, designed to test their strength and resolve. Even so, the battle-hardened women of the Parusite army had given the Athesian defenders quite a fight.

One of the keeps had gone up in flames, stormed, taken and burned, its defenders slaughtered to the last man. After that, the Red Caps had retreated from the town, back to their siege lines.

There was going to be another siege, it seemed.

At least the north of Athesia was too big to encircle in its entirety, so James and she could rely on fresh supplies and communication from Caytor and Eracia. But any further advance south would be challenged by Princess Sasha. If she chose to remain camped and wait for them. Unlikely, given her performance last month. Amalia believed the princess would amass her troops and launch another attack soon, bigger and more ferocious this time.

As far as their strength went, they were matched, but the Athesians knew the terrain better. Well, some of them. Amalia sometimes forgot that more than half the soldiers were paid swords from Caytor, men with fickle and strange loyalty to her brother. He had brought them as his own private army, shaped them into something resembling her father’s legions, but whether they would stay when the killing got thicker, no one really knew. To his credit, her half brother was doing his best to win their hearts and pockets, and it seemed to be working.

James was watching the repair work at the south fort. Hundreds of men were swarming around and over the blackened husks of buildings and the defense wall, removing charred timber, caved-in roofs, and molten lead and iron. Whatever those warped metal lumps used to be, she could not tell. Maybe window frames, door hinges, weapons.

Snow was the best cleaner in the world. It hid everything. Within days, the piles of dead bodies had vanished, clothed in white, frozen until the spring. There would be a noisome stench when the weather warmed, but for now, the scars of
the battle were dusted under the pristine sprinkling of a fresh New Year’s drift. Only a few carts and shattered spears peeked through the white cover.

James was surrounded by a massive wall of men. Since Rob’s assassination, they carried tall shields, twice the height of a tall man, some with panes of mirror glass glued to them, facing outward, in order to project illusions and confuse any hidden shooters. The shields were heavy, and two men had to tote each.

Jarman and Lucas, the two Sirtai magic men, were following James and her closely, protecting the imperial pair with their spells. She really had no idea what they might be doing with their invisible powers, and she truly dreaded their presence. They reminded her of Calemore and that fatal night when she had surrendered Athesia to its sad fate.

She understood their role. She wanted to believe them.

She wished she had read
The Book of Lost Words
before it had been taken from her hands.

Shame, guilt, remorse, unfitting emotions for an empress, and yet she felt them.

Like a true brother and sister, reconciled, they did things together in public. They were always seen moving and scheming as one, talking, laughing. Some of it was feigned, most of it, really. But she really wanted to know this bastard. Who he was, what he stood for. The knowledge he was the senior child fathered by Emperor Adam galled her. By the old customs, he was the true heir to the throne.

What was his mother like? Did Father love her? If so, why had he abandoned her, or why had she left him? Why had he not told his daughter about her or this young man? Maybe he had not known and died without ever having met his son.

James did not try to be too friendly. She suspected he feared her, feared what she stood for, feared that his brittle
career would shatter like thin glass. In a way, he had it right. Born to a common woman, raised as a commoner, he did not take naturally to being an emperor. He had to work hard to train his mind to think and act as the leader of the nation. She could see the effort on his face sometimes.

But he was well liked by the soldiers. Amalia wished she had his knack for it.

Whatever she had thought of her own natural imperiousness had died in Roalas.

She no longer had any illusions about her greatness. Her father had been the legendary general who could inspire anyone just by being around them, but she was not that person. That intimate realization was bittersweet.