The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (55 page)

And then, she was his senior, perhaps by as much as a decade. He felt like a child near her. Still, somehow, she deferred to him. Maybe it was his strength. Maybe it was the scarring of the Abyss that had made him old and somber beyond measure.

“I’ll bring us some food,” he said.

“No meat for me,” Doris said.

Ewan looked around the small, dark room; the window was boarded. “Where’s Constance?”

“She forgot some things in her saddlebags. She said she would be back soon.”

“I told her not to leave—” Ewan sighed in annoyance. Her near-death experience in Eybalen should have left her wiser. But what could he do? Berate a girl for not understanding the twisted nature of humanity?

“Stay in the room, please,” he instructed and went to search for his other companion.

Down below and behind the inn’s common room, he heard the giggles first. Then, a man’s throaty laugh. He entered the stables and saw Constance talking to a groom, less than an arm’s length away. When she spotted him, she stepped back quickly.

The man turned toward Ewan. Annoyance flashed across his face. “What do you want?”

Ewan paused to think. He was not quite sure he loved Constance. No, not that. He cared. He cared for her a lot. She was a fragile mystery, a crushed soul that he felt obliged to nurse back to vitality. And their intimate moment in Shurbalen had stirred a deep longing inside him. Without friends and family, he craved affection. The sight of her talking to this man made him jealous. He felt a pang of anger bubble in his veins.

An involuntary thought arrowed through his mind. He saw his right fist punch the annoyed look off the man’s head, along with the skin and bones of his skull. He envisioned his rock-hard hand connect with the man’s features and ruin them like thin porcelain.

Instead, he said, “Nothing, just came to check on my things, that’s all.”

“Well, you don’t come in my stables like that, you little brat. You hear!” the man shouted. Constance looked pale and uncomfortable. She reached a trembling hand toward the groom.

Ewan carefully examined the other man. Tall and big, with fat muscles and golden hair. He was a hand taller and two hands wider than Ewan. His face was chiseled, with rugged appeal, and whiskered. It was cold outside, but the man was wearing only a leather vest that showed off his brawny arms.

Ewan looked at Constance. Her look of panic pleaded silently. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He averted his eyes, breaking off the challenge. The groom snorted loudly, derisively. Ewan went to his saddlebags and feigned interest in the freshly oiled straps, fumbling with the leather, containing his anger and disappointment. He left.

Their lunch was strained. Ewan ate in silence, avoiding Constance. Doris watched them both carefully, trying to gauge what had transpired in the stables. Perhaps Ewan was just angry with her for leaving.

On his side of the small room, Ewan was stealing looks at the councillor. She was shrewd when she put her mind to it. He remembered running his hands over her flesh that day. He shivered.

The two women did not talk to each other much. There was mistrust there. Constance seemed very wary of Doris for some reason, and her unease seeped through her skin and projected back. It had been only a matter of time before the other woman returned the gesture. Ewan kept wondering what made Constance so afraid of anything that had to do with Caytor. After long weeks on the road, he was convinced she was hiding a deep secret from him. She could read; she ate daintily. She must have been raised in a decent family, he suspected. And yet, he had found her bleeding to death in a gutter in the seediest part of the city. There was something wrong there.

Then again, both women shared the same fate. They had both lost their children. Constance never talked about it. Maybe she mistrusted him. But then why had she made love to him? Why? Was that payment for a favor? Was that affection? A moment of need? He was confused and angered.

His thoughts strayed toward Doris. She was a very lovely, intelligent woman. Despite her terrible ordeal, she emanated warmth and trust. He liked talking to her, especially when he forgot the age difference. And he could not ignore the simple fact that he had saved her life, twice, and that he had shared her sorrow. The unreserved commitment had changed him.

In the evening, they visited the common room for about an hour. They kept apart, trying not to draw too much attention. Ewan spent most of his time watching the bored soldiers gamble and slap the serving girls on the bottom. For all their cultural differences, the Parusites and Athesians got along well when drunk. It was as if the war had never happened.

An elderly priest entered an hour before sunset and called everyone to pray. As one, the guests stood up and murmured a litany to the gods. The clergyman crushed some herbs in his hands, scattered them on the ground, and left.

Ewan realized he had been praying quite loudly. But it felt odd. He wondered what fate had befallen Lar.

Back in the room, the two women shared the bed. Ewan pretended to sleep on the hard floor, listening to rats skittle through the rotten walls. His mind swam with doubt—and the ever-present urgency. He had to go to the City of Gods. He knew that now. And every passing moment made the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that much colder.

In the morning, he rose an hour before dawn. Constance and Doris were still sleeping, cradled together for warmth. Quietly, he left the room and locked it behind him. There was something he had to do.

As he expected, he found the groom awake, hammering on the anvil under the awning of his smithy shed. A pair of black sausages sizzled near the red bolt of metal. It was raining outside, a flat curtain of silent gray drops.

Ewan approached silently. The blond man finally noticed him. He turned, holding the hammer in his right hand. “What do you want, boy?”

“I want you to apologize,” Ewan said simply.

The man smiled. “Eh, you drunk, boy? I’m gonna teach you a lesson. Beat it.”

Ewan stepped closer. “I’m a guest at this inn. You will apologize.”

Without warning, the man swung the hammer. It was aimed for the legs. He did not want to kill Ewan, but he sure intended to make it hurt a lot. Ewan did not dodge and let the metal connect with his thigh. The tool clanged and dropped on the ground.

Quietly, Ewan grabbed the groom by the neck and lifted him off the ground easily. The man gurgled, his face turning dark red. His arms and legs flailed wildly, but he might as well have been wrestling with an ox.

“Apologize.”

“Ooorree,” the stableboy rasped.

Ewan dropped him. The man collapsed, breathing heavily, nursing his right arm. Without another word, Ewan left. He woke Doris and Constance, and they set about preparing for the road.

They took almost four hours, but it was time well spent, including the prayer. For some weird reason, Ewan felt good about it. Furthermore, unlike their hasty departure from Shurbalen, Ewan planned for the journey ahead. He bought yet another horse and loaded its back with goods of all kinds, tools, weapons, blankets, anything they might need. He even purchased a short hunting bow for himself, not that he knew how to use it, but he hoped it would deter bandits. He also considered buying a proper sword, but decided against it. A boy sauntering with a broadsword at his hip was an invitation to trouble.

At his side, Doris was getting ready for the road. She looked anxious. He thought he knew what she was about to do.

“We will continue west,” he said, as he did every morning.

Doris nodded. Ewan waited, but she did not comment on his travel plan.

“You are welcome to come with me,” he murmured softly.

She smiled sadly. He could not decipher the look she gave him. “I want to see the town provost,” Doris said finally, confirming Ewan’s fears.

“Do you think it’s wise?” he asked quietly. In the best case, the officer might believe the councillor and send a letter of protest to King Sergei. The last thing Ewan needed was unnecessary attention and yet another delay. But could he tell a mother who had just lost her two babies not to do that because he was in a hurry?

She produced a small ring from a fold of her dress. It was her signet. Constance flashed a quick, panicky glance at the ring.

Ewan sighed. “We’ll go together.” There was nothing else he could do.

“Thank you,” she said and smiled. Gently, she caressed his cheek. It was a part friendly, part motherly gesture. Ewan felt embarrassed. His jaw was devoid of any hair. He did not have a rugged face, and had no beard. Constance was busy with her own saddle. The groom stood some distance away, avoiding them.

As soon as they had finished packing, they left their horses with the blond stableboy. His name was Tom, and he promised to watch them. Ewan gave him an extra silver, which only confused him more. On foot, they headed for the small manor house that served both as the army command and the mayor’s office.

“Where to?” a bucktoothed guard asked them, spitting a blob on Ewan’s shirt.

“I’m Councillor Doris of Monard in Caytor. I demand to see the commander of this town,” Doris answered.

Ewan swallowed. He was ready for a fight if need be, but he did not relish killing people. However, the bored man just nodded and sent one of his pals into the building. Some time later, the soldier returned and gestured for them to enter. Constance reached a cold, small hand toward Ewan, seeking reassurance. Her fingers brushed against his skin, but he kept his grip slack.

In the large waiting room, a small army of clerks was busy fending off a horde of townsfolk. People were claiming stolen property and lost trade to the pirate raids. Others were complaining about their suspicious neighbors. A merchant was protesting the rise in the price of wheat. One of the petitioners demanded compensation for a handful of pigs roasted in a banquet last week. Another man ceremoniously called for a brank for his mistress, making most of the men burst into laughter. He was kicked out by a couple of none-too-amused guards.

The three of them were led past the commotion, into a smaller room, then another room, and finally into the office of the Naro provost, an older man with an amputated leg, dismissed from the field of battle but still useful in administrative affairs. He was some lowly Parusite noble, it seemed. He proudly displayed his coat of arms on the wall behind him.

“What do you want? You’re the Caytorean councillor?” he asked, looking at Ewan skeptically.

“I am the councillor,” Doris said. “Doris of Monard. Greetings, sir.”

“A woman?” he exclaimed loudly, surprised. “And who are you?”

“He’s my cousin. Lord Ewan of Monard,” she said smoothly. “And his sister.”

The nobleman tried rising from the chair, but found the effort too difficult. He sat back, grimacing. The sweet smell of musty elderly decay persisted. “You don’t look too noble to me.”

Doris reached into her dress and gently placed her ring on the table in front of the man. He scowled and stared at the little piece of gold as it were an insect, wondering if he should crush it. The provost looked quite annoyed.

“So what do you want?”

The councillor bit her lip and told her story. She kept it impartial, impersonal. Ewan watched her with admiration and slight trepidation. He had no idea how this meeting was going to end.