The Betrayed (6 page)

CHAPTER 4

“T
his is
The Book of Lost Words,”
Lord Erik told his grandson. “It’s one of the most precious books in the world. A long time ago, it belonged to the White Witch of Naum. This is the original work. There are no copies.”

Rob’s eyes were big with astonishment. “Where is Naum, Grandpa?”

Lord Erik smiled. “It’s a land far, far to the north, thousands of leagues from here.” The man put the book onto the table before him. It was an ordinary swath of papers, with no decoration whatsoever, though well kept.

Lord Erik lowered his voice conspiratorially. “The four men who wrote the books were powerful wizards. They used blood of newborn babies to write the text and placed devastating spells on the pages to prevent anyone from copying them. Then, they killed themselves so the spells would never be extricated from them. It is said that anyone who tries to copy but one lost word will perish on the spot.”

Rob moaned with excitement. “How did you get the book, Grandpa?”

The grandfather gently patted the boy’s head. “That’s a story for another time.” He opened the book. “During the Age of Sorrow, the gods and goddesses were terrified and lost. Never before had they had to face such uncertainty, and they burned to know what would become of them. But the flow of time was unknown to them, even though they were divine and immortal.”

“But aren’t gods supposed to be almighty?”

Lord Erik shook his head, lips pressed tightly. “Not really, Rob. If they were almighty, they could spawn other gods, or even other worlds, and unmake their own existence. But they can only control the world of men, not their own. No one really knows how gods came to be or what the true extent of their power and purpose is.

“Some say that the gods unmade their almightiness when they created men. They gave mankind belief, but they also gave humans imagination. Once men started inventing their own worlds and their own gods, the power of the true gods waned. They became the instruments of their own creation. It is no different from what people do all the time. They fashion tools to serve them, but these tools can only do as well as they were made. Think of a hammer. You cannot use the hammer to…bake bread, even if you really wanted.”

Rob nodded, fascinated.

“The first men were very different from us, Rob. They were like sheep, dolls in the hands of gods, created by the gods out of a desperate need for self-approval. But Damian changed all that. He gave men passion and greed and envy, and from them bloomed the darkest dreams the human mind could concoct.

“And so, mankind changed its own creators, gave them strengths and weakness. There is Zoya, the goddess of time. But she masters the time of the humans, not her own.”

Lord Erik put the book on the table once again. “In the Age of Sorrow, the gods faced destruction. But they could not tell what the future would bring. Some of them decided to sacrifice their immortal existence to help their cause.”

“Grandpa, you just said the gods cannot kill themselves.”

“They did not kill themselves. They gave away their essence to a few select men, hoping that, through their minds, future truths would unravel themselves. These men became known as prophets.

“Again, some say these were lunatics. And many, indeed, were, for the human mind cannot cope with such terrible knowledge. There were also many false prophets, charlatans and tricksters and pretenders, who used people’s fears and doubts to fuel their own goals and ambitions.

“The prophets would tell people about the future, which they saw in bits and glimpses as their minds fought madness. Some told clear truths; others spoke in riddles of events unknown. Most of the time, prophets did manage to foretell the future, but people mistook their clues and did things the wrong way or at the wrong time, undoing the success of the tellings.”

Rob scratched his head. “So the prophets knew everything?”

Lord Erik nodded. “Yes, but they could not use this vast knowledge. It’s like seeing someone else’s dreams. The words and images and feelings are there, but if you cannot relate them to your own life, they are mostly meaningless. People can comprehend only what they already know.”

“So the gods and goddesses gave away their essence for nothing?”

“Not entirely. Of all the thousands of people who had been blessed with the total knowledge of all times, there was a special group of prophets who managed remarkably well. These were scholars, men already possessing vast knowledge. On top of that, they were also wizards, people born with a tinge of divine blood and capable of tampering with the sources of elements.

“The wizards could unravel the mysterious divinations far better than most others. They also let their pupils study the prophecies, which sometimes helped pinpoint the location and time of the events. Still, many prophecies remained completely unsolved. It was said that people would be able to decipher them only when what was foretold was actually happening, if not afterward.

“When the Age of Sorrow ended, the prophets became a liability. Mere words started horrible wars. Fearing another catastrophe, the gods urged their followers to put to death all of the prophets so that the divine knowledge would not be misused. The loyal wizards knew they had been betrayed and that their end was coming soon. But before they perished, they decided to do one last thing. They had their vast knowledge committed to writing. When it was done, the master wizards killed all their apprentices and young wizards and finally themselves, burying with them the truth of their deed. This grim, blood-soaked work became known as
The Book of Lost Words.”

“And you have it, Grandpa,” was all Rob managed to say.

“It’s a literary masterpiece,” Lord Erik said in a lighter tone. “Reading the book is great fun, if one does not try to solve the mysteries of the divinations. These prophecies are very dangerous and best left alone. It’s much better if one reads them as pure prose.”

“Do any prophets live today?” Rob asked, intrigued.

“No one really knows. There are always people who would claim this or that, but no one can tell for sure. There are madmen all about, preaching and foretelling doom, but no one really takes them seriously, especially since most people today have never heard of the real prophets.”

Rob was silent, contemplating. Lord Erik was proud of his grandson. The boy had a sharp mind. His ability to soak up new information, even difficult adult ideas, seemed limitless.

“Can I read one of the prophecies, please?” the boy asked finally.

Lord Erik looked uneasy for a moment. His grandson was just mastering his letters. He was eager to try his new skill. The old man was not really sure if Rob should be reading on his own just yet, but it would not hurt. No, it would not hurt.

He opened a page at random and held the book in front of the boy. Then, he hesitated. “Now, Rob, I told you no one must copy this book. But languages evolve over time. Words lose meaning. Things and places and people change. So how do you think the book remains relevant?”

The boy’s eyes were wide as he fantasized the answer. “Because…because it’s written in magical words, Grandpa?”

Lord Erik felt immensely proud. “Yes, Rob. The men who wrote the book knew that if they let people make copies, with time, changes and errors would creep in, translations would be made, some good, some bad, and eventually, no one would remember the original meaning. And so the book is written in the divine language so everyone can understand it, no matter what corner of the world they come from. And the original message never gets lost.”

“Really?” The boy looked pleased.

Lord Erik nodded. “Here you go.”

Rob’s lips moved as he read slowly, frowning.
The Book of Lost Words
was difficult, even to patient scholars. The boy finished the short paragraph and raised his face, wreathed in confusion. There was a moment of silence.

“That’s it, Grandpa?”

Lord Erik grinned. “What did you expect, Rob? Prophecies are short and very vague.”

“I thought it would be more like a story.” The boy seemed disappointed.

Lord Erik sighed. Perhaps the book was too sophisticated for Rob after all.

CHAPTER 5

T
wo days after Ayrton left, Ewan got sick. He broke into a sudden, violent fever that made him incapable of leaving his bed. He sweated through every pore of his body. His joints hurt and felt hollow. Other young brothers tried to help him, rubbing his body with wine and soaking his feet in potato peelings, but the fever did not seem to abate.

He watched them through half-lidded eyes, purple flashes of pain clouding his vision anytime he moved his head, anytime they opened the small shutters to the chamber to let the foul odors out, anytime they changed the linens or propped him up to use the pot.

But the worst were the nightmares he suffered. Day after day, they came, the same, repetitious, attritive dreams that gave him no rest. He saw the dreaded, predictable images every time he dozed off. They floated above and behind his eyes, like a leaden weight, pulsating in rhythm with the spasms that riddled his jellylike muscles.

It was always the same scenario. He stood in a gray world, shimmering silver and black shadows dancing at the edge of his vision, surrounding him, denying him any sense of bearing. In front of him, an oval frame showed a flickering gallery of morbid pictures, which he could not identify, but which left him with a cold knot of foreboding every time he saw them.

After staring stupidly at the images, he would start walking into that frame, never quite reaching it. The shadows would twist and engulf him, nausea stabbing through. His footsteps echoed, becoming a drone of slow drums. Then, his breath would join in. And then his heartbeat.

And then, he was running, running for his dear life, looking back. But all he saw was a raging, hungry blackness, a void that threatened to suck him in. He ran, ran across dead earth covered in little rocks and fragments of bones.

His chest threatened to burst, but he could not stop sprinting. The agony was unbearable. After an eternity of pain, he would collapse and start clawing at his chest, drawing blood. He would stare at his own fingers, broken and smeared in blood, and recoil at the revulsion he felt. Then, he would see his rib cage jutting out beneath his shirt and cry in dismay.

He awoke, a shrill, raspy scream jammed in his gullet. He spat blood on the floor, near a pool of old vomit. His throat burned. The sockets of his teeth were raw with pain from the acids of his stomach. He wished he were dead.

“Have some water,” Adrian, one of his friends, suggested.

Slowly, Ewan reached with a feeble, trembling hand to discover he did not have enough strength to lift a small pewter cup. Involuntary tears slid down from the corners of his eyes. His cheeks were already white with salty trails.

Adrian helped him drink, sip after agonizing sip. The air in the room stank. Bowls of vinegar had been placed in the corners of the chamber in an attempt to kill the humors.

“I want to die,” Ewan whispered.

“Be strong. Everything will be all right,” his friend reassured him.

Ewan nodded and collapsed back onto the clammy, tangled sheets. The world of darkness engulfed him once more.

When he woke again, he realized he had not dreamed that stupid nightmare again. He had slept without dreaming, the deep, blank sleep of recuperation after severe exhaustion.

Tenderly, he sat up. He had expected horrible pain to wreath him, but blessedly, he felt merely sore from lying in bed for some time. There was obvious weakness in his body, but new tendrils of strength were coursing through his mangled flesh, growing thicker. He was hungry.

As he slowly regained his senses, the acrid smell of smoke registered in his brain.

Wobbling, he walked to the shuttered window and peered through a slit in the wooden fixture. Thick gray smoke curled outside. He could hear wood crackling as it burned—and people screaming. Armed horsemen in black uniforms were riding in circles, wielding swords and torches. They hollered like animals.