The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (61 page)

The night settled. Sergei headed for his tent, his mind aswirl with uncertainty and bad thoughts. When he entered, Timur waited for him with a plateful of honeyed lizard tails. The king grinned weakly, yet warmly. Well, not all things were bad, after all.

CHAPTER 37

A
fter a long day of teaching, Elia loved to spend the last hours of the day on the porch outside their home, sipping lemonade and eating fruit with Ayrton. The season was ebbing, leaves shriveling and turning yellow on the tree branches. Days were getting shorter. Soon, it would be too cold to sit like this outside.

Ayrton was at her side, enjoying the cool afternoon. He must be tired from training the local militia, but it made him feel good knowing the city watch was that much better, that much more adept at tracing criminals and handling them without fuss. Tamora may not be a big town, but its clear waters drew all kinds of barges, and all kinds of types stepped off the ship decks and onto its slick docks.

Besides, it kept him occupied, made him stay sharp, and allowed him to indulge in the one thing he really knew best, how to fight and stay alive. But now, it was no longer a fight of survival, it was honor. Life couldn’t be any better for Ayrton.

News from the realms came like the smell of fish on an afternoon breeze, distant, pale, mixed with others. It was hard to really know what was happening in the world they had left behind. Whenever the local locals chatted, Ayrton tried to avoid perking his ears and listening. This time around, he had no place in the wars between the kings and monarchs and emperors and clergy. Elia was glad he had found the peace within himself.

Still, he was worried, she knew, ever so slightly, the soldierly instinct burning low like banked coals. He would never fully get rid of the guilt and anger etched in his personality. Whenever the fishermen and innkeepers raised their voices for a bit of gossip, whenever they turned to worldly affairs of war, Ayrton would be that much more attentive, the creases around his eyes going taut. He tried to hide it, and he could fool most, but not her.

Tamora was an independent city, like a hundred others this side of Lia Lake, answering to no ruler. It had mountains to protect it from the uncharted lands beyond and from the tribes of the Red Desert. To the north, Tamora lived in peace with its nomadic neighbors, relying on trade and good relations rather than cold steel and violence. But no place within a thousand miles of the realms was truly free of their fatalistic grip. When they stirred, the ripples carried far, the worst bits bobbing on the top.

Her knowledge of human affairs was mixed with the wonder and naivety of another age, but she believed she understood the fear and greed and mistrust that motivated humans. And she knew that Ayrton carried the weight of that knowledge for both of them.

So, she did her best to make him feel safe and sane.

Elia was telling him about her children. She loved them fiercely like her own. And every day, she had a wealth of stories, how the kids struggled with letters and notes and songs, how they basked in glee when she praised their good work. She noticed Ayrton seemed distracted. She frowned. Usually, he listened raptly. She touched his arm. He did not stir.

Elia’s words trailed off.

Ayrton was no longer listening to her. Her love was staring intently north and west, looking at a stranger standing at the top of the small rise just outside their small stead.

Elia shielded her eyes from the sun and looked. At the crest of the rise, a figure stood, tall, proud, dressed in white, all shiny and bright. There was no mistaking that silhouette, the posture, the cocky stance that said
I own the world
, but mostly, the pure white clothes, tip to toe.

“Oh no,” she whispered, her breath catching in her throat as a memory thousands of years old assailed her.
Impossible. Here? Now? Why?

“What’s wrong?” Ayrton said, rising. He must have sensed her terror. Visitors rarely came by their ranch, but when they did, she was usually calm and trusting and would greet them warmly. Only this time, her stomach cramped into a cold, tight knot.

Elia felt her lower lip tremble. She searched for words. Instead, she moaned in a desperate plea. Her fingers scratched Ayrton’s forearm. “Please, no,” she cried.

Ayrton carefully pried her fingers away, ignoring the pain. Elia was stronger than she looked. He watched the stranger start down the dusty trail that led to their home. The man was pacing slowly, surely, as if he had every right to trespass. Something long dangled at his hip. The man was armed.

“Elia, go inside,” Ayrton said.

“No, no! Ayrton, please no. We must run,” she whispered. Tears were running down her cheeks.

Ayrton took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Living with a former goddess meant there were very few things that could really surprise him. But that did not mean he relished the truth.

“Who is that man? That
thing
?” he corrected himself.

Elia composed herself. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “That’s Damian’s son.”

Ayrton swallowed. Damian, the Father of Evil, the man who had killed her once. The simple enormity of that statement made the world around him spin. He felt lost in a torrent of history, a meaningless speck that floated on currents stirred in a different age.

“What does he want?” he growled.

Elia rubbed her eyes. “Nothing good,” she croaked.

Without a word, he went into the house and came back holding his sword, an old, sharp blade he had put aside eighteen years ago, but never forgot to oil or sharpen.

When she saw the sword, Elia turned hysterical. She collapsed onto her knees, crying again. “My love, no. You cannot fight him. We must run,” Elia whimpered. But her wet eyes were telling a different story.
It’s a folly. We cannot run. Not from
him.

Ayrton knelt down beside her and smiled weakly. He understood. But he was not a man to go down without a fight. Not when all he ever truly cared for was at stake.

“I love you,” he said simply.

“I love you,” Elia said.

He caressed her cheek. Someone else might be cursing his bad luck now. Others would feel insulted for having misfortune intrude into their lives so casually. Not him. He cherished the eighteen years of peace and love and gentle caring he had been granted. Wise men told you how you only got one chance in life. But then, the priests had given him a second chance. And Elia, his third. Three times lucky. What a privilege to be able to put away the old nightmares. To grow old side by side with someone who loved and cared for you. What more could he ask for? He was truly blessed. And he was thankful for every single moment with Elia.

She leaned over, hugging him fiercely. Her grip was crushing. He breathed in her smell, nuzzled his nose against her neck. He had no regrets, felt no remorse. There was nothing he wished for now, not even an extra season of life, because he was happy. Completely and utterly happy. A humble man knew when to quit.

Selflessly, the former outsider rose, kissed the woman he loved one last time, and stepped forward up the trail. He moved forward to intercept the god’s son.

“State your business,” Ayrton called while still some distance from the stranger.

“Calemore, the White Witch of Naum, at your service,” the man introduced himself flamboyantly, flourishing an elaborate bow. He was wearing a big, false grin on his face. The stranger stopped walking and waited for the old man to approach.

“What do you want?” Ayrton growled, halting ten paces away.

“I need to talk to Elia,” Calemore said. “Step aside, and you will live.”

Ayrton shrugged. “As it happens, you’re trespassing. I recommend you backtrack to wherever you came from and never bother us again.”

The White Witch clapped. “Oh, such bold words. Oh my! Why do you waste your breath of empty bravery? Why do you have this…stupid need for fatalism? You don’t look stupid. After nearly two decades of living with a goddess, you ought to know some things are beyond your grasp. Right now, you’re meddling in affairs too big for you. So I will warn you one more time, step aside. There’s no reason why you should die.” Ayrton watched this Calemore. He had no idea what strange, divine powers this thing possessed, but he was not going to let him get near Elia. It was a stupid notion, he knew. Yet, he could not let him get past, even if it meant his death.

The former outsider felt no fear. Only calm resignation. He had been blessed in life more than any other man. He was a complete and happy person. Death troubled only fools who squandered their lives waiting for the inevitable death. Yes, he could step aside and let the stranger pass and win a few more years of living, yet another chance. No one got four rolls of dice in a row in the gamble of life. No one. Except him. But at what cost? This time, the price was too steep.

“You have nothing that could make me change my mind,” Ayrton said softly.

Calemore seemed angered by that simple sentence. “You would throw away your short life just like that?”

“I am old and happy. That’s eternal.”

The White Witch hissed and drew his sword, a huge piece of metal that shone white and silver. “A poet, who would have known?”

“Stop it!” Elia shouted, close by.

Ayrton panicked suddenly. He flicked a quick glance behind him. His love stood maybe ten paces behind. “Elia, go back. Please. Run. Hide. Please.”

The former goddess looked past her lover at Calemore. “Why are you doing this?”

The witch tilted his head. “I warned him.” And he lunged.

Elia screamed. Ayrton ducked.

Calemore toyed with him, taunting, lunging, then retreating, testing his skill. Ayrton wielded the blade with a grimace on his face, old muscles stretched taut. His eyes were calm. This was simple. You fought for what you loved. As simple as that. Life never made more sense than just then.

Then, he was falling. The sword felt so light in his grip. He looked down and saw his hand empty, the sword resting on the dirt trail. He staggered, a sheet of blood gushing from the deep rent in his belly. Closing his eyes, he folded sideways.
Elia
, he called in his head.

She was there, cradling his head in her lap, hot tears dripping on his face. He smiled. With the last ounce of failing strength, he beckoned her closer. She leaned and kissed his forehead.

“Let’s get this farce over,” Calemore said, bored.

Elia ignored him. She stroked Ayrton’s hair gently, stroked his face, his gentle, loving face. The world around her no longer existed. There was only Ayrton.

“I will remember you forever,” she whispered.

Ayrton blinked. “I love you,” he managed. His breath stopped. His eyes glazed over.

“Are we done yet?” The witch gestured wildly. “Let’s go.”

“I love you,” Elia said one last time. Time slowed and stopped. Nothing mattered. After a moment or an hour, she could not tell, Elia lowered Ayrton’s head to the ground and rose. Her eyes were puffy, almost closed. She stepped closer until she could feel the icy, odorless breath of Damian’s son.

“Why?” she asked him simply, quietly.

Calemore stepped back, looking uncomfortable with her small, determined presence. “I warned him. It’s your fault. You know you shouldn’t meddle with humans. They die.” He pointed.