The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) by Igor Ljubuncic Page B

sour. “Second, do not ever patronize me. The next time you do, I will have you beheaded.”
    He lowered his head. “I apologize.”
    Gerald swallowed. He felt uncomfortable. Why was Amalia being so stern?
    Theodore looked equally embarrassed. He looked as if he wanted to berate the empress, but he kept his lips tightly pressed.
    Amalia realized she may have gone too far. She deflated just a little. “That’s better. Now, let’s start over. Caytor wants peace? Well, they will have to make the first move.”
    Stephan grimaced. “It will be very difficult for me to negotiate such a gesture, Your Highness.”
    Her fervor came back. She snorted in an unladylike manner. “Why? Your caravans rumble across Athesia unharmed. If I wanted to starve you to death, I could have done that easily. No, I want peace. And I want a formal apology, for all the wrongs you’ve done my father.”
    Stephan was smart enough not to argue. “I will see what I can do. You will, of course, permit me to write a letter and send it to Eybalen?”
    “Yes, you may write a letter,” Amalia said.
    Theodore rubbed his face. Gerald said nothing. But he knew how the old adviser must feel. The councillor had just offered the empress an easy way out of this mess. True, he did have a huge interest in making sure the peace lasted, but it did not matter. In return, Amalia had humiliated him. Gerald hoped the man liked gold more than he liked his pride.
    He found the exchange somewhat alarming. Amalia was being dangerously bold. Her father had never bothered to voice his disagreement to his foes. He made sure they
knew
he disagreed.
    A war was coming. That was for sure. The captain of Roalas could not say whether it would be Eracian spears or Caytor swords that fell upon his country, but they would, sooner or later. His empress was going to rewrite her legacy in battle. Just like her father had.
    To what end, he wondered. Did she know something he didn’t? Was blood and fire the only way Athesia could survive and earn the grudging respect of its neighbors? Was intimidation and violence the only coin of trade? Eighteen years of peace had polished some of Adam’s work, but he had been the most brutal and atrocious ruler in the realms in many generations. Perhaps it was time for another grim showdown of resolve. Well, he just hoped Amalia knew what she was doing.
    He turned his thoughts to his duty: making Roalas ready for a prolonged siege.

CHAPTER 7
    T he god Nannath lifted his head, squinted at the sun, and wiped sweat from his forehead. He stared at his ageless palm, unmarked by eons of hard work in the fields. Where humans would have blood and pus under a layer of yellowed boils, his skin was smooth and perfect.
    He had not felt this alive in a long, long time. Ever since the Great Court, he had languished in a senseless stupor, hanging on the edge of boredom and apathy, more dead than alive. Time had lost importance. Importance had become just another word. But then, Damian’s spirit had broken free from its eternal prison, and with it, the bond that had kept Nannath lethargic and stupefied and so sick with the burden of living had shattered, too. It felt like being created again. It felt wonderful.
    Nannath had felt his life force draining away as his followers were butchered, but many had survived. Farmers all over the world had never really abandoned him. Growing crops was magical, almost like human birth. You could plow the earth, sow seeds, and nourish them with water, but then crops might never grow. And then, one day, against all odds, after harsh winter frost or a terrible fire, a bud could shoot through the crust of mud and ice and ash and give life. It wasn’t science. Life was unpredictable. For farmers, chance separated life from death. This magic was part of the deep faith that had helped Nannath survive.
    Fleeing the City of Gods had been an ordeal. He had seen so many of his kin perish. They would just stagger in midstep and fall down,