The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (13 page)

“Help?” she said as if dazed. “Help. Help…me.”

Ewan knelt. The girl shied away. She tried a weak kick in his direction.

“My name is Ewan. I will help you. I will take you to the City Watch. They will administer your wounds. And then, they will hunt down those criminals.” He didn’t really know any of that, but he had to say something reassuring.

At the mention of the City Watch, the girl panicked. “No, no! No City Watch, please.”

Was she a criminal, too? His mind raced. Maybe it was just gang rivalry? Settling old scores? He wondered who this broken thing was. What had she done? Who would send five grown men to beat her senseless, maybe even kill her? And why?

“Help me,” she sobbed. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Ewan took a deep breath. What could he do? Turn her over to the City Watch and forget about her? Take her with him? But he could not do that. He didn’t even know who she was. Besides, she would be a burden. Unlike him, she would need food and rest and shelter.

And so will your horse
, he reminded himself. He could have walked, but the notion of marching day and night without end made him sad. Riding a horse gave him a sense of sanity.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“No names, please. Just help me. Take me away from here.”

Ewan reached for her arm. She winced. Then, she realized he was trying to help her and let him touch her skin. She was cold. Gently, he helped her rise. She was in no shape to walk. She stood bent, as if her ribs were bruised. One of her arms looked broken. She limped, too. She was one step from the grave. She might not even survive the night.

No names, he thought. But it made no difference. Ayrton would never have left a wounded person to die in a gutter; he would help now and ask questions later. And that was what Ewan would do.

“I’ll carry you,” he said. “Don’t worry about anything. You’re safe with me.” He lifted her. She cried out in pain, but once she was snuggled against him, her wails subsided. Seconds later, she was sleeping, the weak sleep of the deeply hurt.

Ewan gently propped her into the saddle. The horse frisked, nervous around the scent of blood. He made sure she would not fall off. Then, he pulled a woolen blanket from one of the bulging side bags and covered her back, keeping her warm. That was all he could do for now. Later, there would be time to ask questions. It was a mistake, he felt, but he had no choice.

He had to leave Eybalen. But what about the girl? She might be bleeding inside. She had to see a healer. But anywhere he went now, he would arouse suspicion. If he sought a healer in one of the more expensive parts of the city, there would be too many questions asked, and he had none of the answers. The rich people did not like anything disturbing their peace. They would want to investigate. They might even alert the City Watch.

Should he go back? Find another place to stay for a few days and then seek someone who could help the girl? His stomach protested. It felt like hunger, but it was deeper than that. He had to go west. The urgency of his soul pleading almost made him panic.

It can wait
, he told himself. If a man had no time to help a fellow human being, then the grand scheme of things did not really matter anyway. Divine matters would wait. They had waited for eighteen years. A few more days would not matter.

He untied the reins and walked the horse back to the waterfront.

CHAPTER 9

L
ife as an emperor in exile was nothing like James had expected. Well, he wasn’t really an emperor yet, nor had he been exiled from anywhere, but that was who he was supposed be. So, the journey became one of excitement, wonder, and learning. Most of all, it was one big political game, and he was no good at it.

The day after he had agreed to accept the imperial duty, he had left Windpoint. His mother had wept a lot. Bailiff Edmund had seemed confused, but he had not prodded into the hidden reasons that compelled James to leave so suddenly. He trusted James’s judgment.
“See you later, lad,”
was all he said.

The hardest part, though, was parting with Celeste, his betrothed. She was devastated. Worst of all, he had to lie to her, spin a vague story about duty, and reassure her that it would all be all right, that he would return soon. But he did not believe he would ever be back. He only hoped that he could become an emperor fast enough so he could send for her. Her father had stood by, his face dark and grim and disappointed. The old man’s eyes were unforgiving.

Mother and Alexa said their good-byes as the Caytoreans came by. His mother had hugged him fiercely, crushing him close, whispering in his ear. He nodded dumbly. She stepped back, sobered, and showed a small purse to the merchants called Otis and Melville.

Then, he joined the Caytoreans and didn’t look back.

They had traveled east for a week, with minimal escort, a dark-robed Sirtai and several burly men who looked like personal guards. They slept in roadside inns. They spent the evening hours in the common room, talking about the grim tasks ahead. James did not want to sound like a fool, so he asked little and let them speak. The two men radiated businesslike honesty that James knew was a pretense. He had seen that kind of look on the faces of confidence tricksters. Otis and Melville were dangerous people, he decided there and then. In fact, only two days into their journey, he realized he could not trust anyone around him. He knew he was being used; he just hoped they did not know he knew. It might lend him an advantage in the days to come.

The border crossing between the two realms was a depressing landmark, a single hut, with the roof green with old rot, and cowhide for windows. A man with dark, wrinkled skin and shining silver hair stood in front of it, waving at them. He did not seem afraid or even suspicious.

The Dead End Road became the Northern Highway, and the land changed its name. They left the weird villager and his eerie abode behind and crossed into the enemy state. James felt a shiver run up his spine as he considered the implications. Nothing marked the graves of the countless souls who had been forced to shed blood in order to move the invisible border further west or east, but he could almost sense the weight of history, imprinted in the rocks and loam.

There was little to tell the two rival countries apart, except that Caytor bore fresh scars of a civil war that had mercifully passed over Eracia. Well, it had been stopped dead in its tracks. If his father—it felt so strange to think of that man as his real father—had not stopped the Feorans, their scourge would have spilled into his homeland.

James wondered which one it was, neglect or purpose, that had made these Caytoreans leave ruined temples and abandoned villages dotting the roadside. Perhaps it was a warning sign of what had happened, a reminder to the younger generations.

Weed and hail and snow had almost eroded these scars, but they kept peeking through the tangle and brush, a rib cage of a monastery here, the broken wheel of a mill there, the still-standing wall of a once-prosperous inn now all on its own.

After a handful of boring days on almost-deserted roads, with wind and rainfall fouling their travel, the land turned friendlier, cultivated fields with peasants working, towns enveloping road junctions, trade wagons rolling in well-used ruts. It seemed to James that at least some parts of this country had been rebuilt. Neglect could be a punishment, James realized.

At last, they arrived at a large mansion somewhere in northwestern Caytor. Pain Daye, it was called.

It was a huge, sprawling thing, designed with style and elegance, made from expensive, shiny marble-like stone and red clay roofing. The estate was encircled by a checkerboard of plowed fields that stretched for miles, with hundreds of farmers toiling knee-deep in the muck. They paused in their work and stared at the little convoy with focused interest.

His country’s foes did not look that much different from the Eracian farmer, he realized. The councillors may not have long titles like the Eracian nobility, but they were still lords and ladies and had the common men working for them. It was a sobering thought.

Up close, the mansion lost some of its idyllic magic and became a thing of solid, layered defenses, with several perimeter walls topped with rusty metal spikes, horsed patrols, and even a sentry tower. There was no straight route leading to the manor house itself. The cobbled path angled and twisted, sometimes going half the way around before circling back. Armed guards with crossbows manned the passageways and gates.

The presence of soldiers disturbed James. His claim for the Athesian throne was a dangerous military affair, not a courtly game. In a way, it made things easier. He could understand that sort of danger.

His first night at the estate was a flicker of images, of opulence, decadence, a torrent of vulturelike faces frozen with artificial smiles, fancy honorifics and names, and polite retainers who tried to do every little thing. During the course of the evening meal, one of the servants tried to dab a napkin against the bread crumbs on his lips. Surprised, James leaned back and grabbed the man’s hand in his fist. The servant yelped in shock, and several female guests gasped in astonishment. Only then did James realize what had happened. He felt good about it, if dizzy with the sickly sweet glamour that engulfed him.

The next day, he was briefly taught about etiquette. Master Angus was going to be his teacher on history, language, poetry, and manners. “To be the ruler of a nation, a man must have intelligence and power, but most importantly, a man must have charisma,” the elderly, well-groomed tutor proclaimed. “At the moment, the lad has none.” He spoke in third person, even though James was sitting directly in front of him.

“To be the ruler of a nation,” James repeated. “And how would you know? Have you ever been one?”

Master Angus seemed unfazed. “Well, he does not lack in intelligence after all.” But that ended their meeting for that day.

Next, he was introduced to more people, his personal help, his clerk and scribe, his bodyguards. He was told he could choose a cook if he wanted. Otis also politely but firmly informed him that a real gentleman needed some kind of a hobby if he wanted to blend into Caytorean society. He could choose any one popular activity. It all depended on how he wanted to be portrayed, firm yet just, pleasant yet cunning, witty yet charming. They warned him against girly practices like falconry and gardening.

His reputation as a man of the law and a good tracker was bound to earn him respect among the councillors, they thought. Perhaps he should seek interest in hunting or horse racing.

The long day became even longer as a fresh stream of advisers and teachers came to meet him, introducing themselves one after another, a long litany of honorifics and epithets. Master Neal was going to teach him about economy and negotiations. Master Alfred was going to be his instructor on architecture, alchemy, and weapons making. James wondered why he needed to know anything about how catapults were made, but he was glad for the choice. He loved machinery, but possessed only rudimentary knowledge. It would be a great opportunity to learn more.

Sergeant Hector was his new master-at-arms, and his list of titles ran the longest, including many fancy ranks. He used to be the head of the military academy in Eybalen and served in the army for almost three decades. The man was tall and thin and looked as if someone had thrown a ragged coat of gnarled, chewed leather onto his bones. James knew his kind well, deceptively weak looking but tougher than a rabid badger.

He was going to be personally charged with helping James gain more skill with the sword. But more importantly, he was going to help James learn how to lead people in combat. When James mentioned his experience, the master just laughed. Their first training session was on the morrow.

James went to bed confused, his head swimming with names and faces. At dawn, they woke him, dressed him in a boiled-hide jerkin, and sent him over to Master Hector. The sword fighting lesson turned out to be just what he had expected. But he was glad for the distraction.

Days stretched one after another. Most of the time, he was out there, wielding a wooden sword, doing the one thing he knew well. His regiment of helpers and teachers did not bother him much yet. Perhaps they were giving him time to get used to this new reality.