The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (63 page)

Wars seemed complex, he realized. Much like his own life.

His first sword lessons were easy, but soon enough his mentors decided to season the training with an extra helping of humility. The unexpected flat blow would have knocked down a lesser man, but Ewan just stood there, pretending to be just mildly bruised. The Parusites tried no more tricks after that and focused on teaching him how to fight properly.

Then, one night, he saw the spy.

Ewan was not quite sure if it were his human sight or some supernatural sense that made him spot the intruder. He was lying as quiet as a corpse behind a bush, making no movement or sound, camouflaged in mud and dirt and dried leaves, with soot on his skin, and even a thin patch of cloth over his face to mask the white of his eyes. And yet, Ewan saw him. The Parusite sentries were completely oblivious of the stranger in their midst.

Ewan decided to keep still and observe. Nothing happened that night.

For three nights in a row, he saw the stranger. It was uncanny. He would rise, pretending he needed to piss, and then as he stood by a tree, his eyes roamed the inky world. Within seconds, they would come to rest on the prone shape, picking him out amidst scree and bushes and twisted shapes. On the fourth day, Ewan even thought he glimpsed the man from the corner of his eye in broad daylight. No one else noticed. The patrols reported no unusual activity.

The fifth day turned out to be the Autumn Festival. Ewan had forgotten all about it, but the soldiers quickly reminded him with their preparations. They combed their hair and trimmed their beards and washed blood and mud from their boots. As the sun set, they prayed for more than an hour, but decided to skip the all-night fast. Piousness was good, but the open countryside rains had diluted it somewhat.

The soldiers did not skimp on the evening meal, though. They did their best to turn a cold, wet night into a sort of a celebration. Doris never left her tent, but Constance did come out and join the party. The standard gaming and gambling repertoire was replaced with some melancholy singing and a lot of drinking. Ewan prayed the celebration would be a quiet one. The simple truth that two rather attractive women traveled with a handful of lonely armed men never escaped his mind. He was not really sure what he would do if one of the soldiers decided to take liberties. It wasn’t for his own sake. It was for Doris. She needed their escort so she could petition the Parusite king.

Luckily, there was no violence. The soldiers all acted their best, as if an invisible hand of good manners and some instinctual respect for the first day of autumn guided their minds. The singing turned merrier by the hour. But then, their energy and excitement spent, the soldiers began dozing off near the fire, dropping like flies. Constance was already fast asleep, curled in a ball under a thick fur blanket near an older sergeant. Ewan gritted his teeth, but did nothing.

That night, Ewan decided to act.

He had no idea how he would surprise someone who had eluded the Parusite force, but he tried. Hours after everyone had gone to bed, inside the tents or just sprawled anywhere the fatigue smote them, Ewan left the camp. He ignored the unlucky and bored guards who taunted him, seeking any kind of attention that would shatter the monotony of their task. Slowly, carefully, Ewan walked for almost half a mile in a random direction, then backtracked. Within the sight of perimeter fires, he went down on his knees and elbows and started crawling. The ground was wet and sucked all sound. He slithered like a lizard, quietly.

His heart thundered when he spotted the man, hidden behind a rock, surveying the camp. He had not heard Ewan approach. The boy inched closer. Ten paces, three paces, one foot away. The man was completely oblivious of the inexperienced stalker behind him. When Ewan’s powerful grip closed on his ankle, the man stirred, then froze. He was no fool. He knew that if he cried out, he would die.

“Very good,” Ewan whispered. “Disarm yourself and crawl back, slowly. One wrong movement and I’ll rip your leg off. Do not test me.” Whoever the stranger was, he obeyed. “Now turn around, slowly.”

The man had the distinctive features of a weathered sailor. He was most likely an Oth Danesh. Ewan was surprised they had such talented spies. He had not expected the pirates to master such sophistication.

“How did you find me?” the man said quietly.

“Never mind that. I’ll be asking questions,” Ewan corrected. “Who are
you
?”

The pirate’s brows shot up. For a moment, he seemed to consider his answer. Then, he sighed. “I am following you.”

Ewan grimaced. “That is obvious, isn’t it?” The new overlord had sworn fealty to King Sergei, but he either did not have the power or did not try to keep his men in check. Or perhaps he was deliberately instigating the raids against Caytorean cities. It was no surprise the pirates would want to keep an eye on the Parusites.

The man shook his head. “No. I’m following you.” He pointed at Ewan. “You.”

Ewan swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“You got magic,” the spy accused.

Before the man could blink, Ewan’s arm closed around his neck. The man sucked in a hasty breath, but he did not struggle. He seemed perfectly aware of Ewan’s special abilities. There would be no point in fighting back.

“Explain yourself,” Ewan barked. He realized he had lost his composure.

“No one can track me but people with magic,” the spy rasped. “After you left, Calad told me to follow. We tracked you on horse for a week. But then you entered foreign land, and we had to change tactics.”

Ewan recalled the silent escort through the ravaged Caytorean countryside. Apparently, it was not just an honor guard or an envy guard. The pirates seemed to know more than he had expected. This was a troubling thought. Magic was a filthy word in the realms. It was associated with dark, forgotten segments of history.

“What do you want from me?”

The spy tried to swallow, but Ewan’s grip was too hard. He dribbled spit instead. “Our people have a legend. It speaks of a man who can breathe like a fish. We…Underlord Calad thought you are that man from the legend. Our nation is waiting for you.”

Stunned, Ewan slacked his grip. “I’m not that man.”

The spy rubbed his neck, breathing deeply. His eyes were wet with tears under the silk veil. “Be that as it may, you tracked me when no one else can. You have magic, landman.”

Ewan’s mind raced. He felt like a child after a game of top. The world spun in a smear of colors, and he was groping blindly, trying to regain some balance. The words should not have come to him as a shock. He was physically indestructible. He needed no food or rest. Nothing could hurt him. And he had spent almost two decades in the Abyss. He was definitely a creature of magical powers, even if he had trouble believing this mad legacy that coursed in his veins.

So far, he had not met anyone who would accept that terrible truth without balking, well except that Sirtai investigator. And yet, there was this pirate, a supposedly illiterate, superstitious seafaring bandit, who watched him with clarity and understanding and maybe even adoration.

For a fleeting heartbeat, Ewan did not feel alone. He wanted nothing to do with gods and magic. But he had no family, no friends, no one to confide in. He was confronted with dreadful questions he had no answers to. A morbid burden tugged at his soul, and he did not understand any of it. But now, now there was hope. Some foreign nation had a legend of an omnipotent man walking in their midst. Maybe it was just a stupid tale. Maybe it was just sailors’ superstition. But for him, it was the first thread of a higher truth that might help him understand what he was.

And then, he thought of Doris. Her children had been abducted by the Oth Danesh. He could force this pirate to tell him everything he knew about their legend. Or he could use him for what he had promised Doris.

“What’s your name?” Ewan asked.

“Toraan,” the man said.

“Listen to me carefully, Toraan. My friend Doris had her family attacked by your people. Her husband was killed, her two small children abducted. They are being taken back to your land aboard one of your ships. What I want you to do is find those children and bring them back.”

Toraan swallowed. “Landman, it is impossible.”

Ewan regretted not doing this before. Tracing down those babies now would be very difficult. “You have magic. Use your magic. I don’t care. You will find her children and return them to their mother.”

The pirate considered his next sentence. He was obviously afraid of Ewan. “Can’t be done.”

Ewan reached down and picked up a rock from the ground. He gripped it hard and squeezed. The stone creaked and crumbled. “I don’t care if Underlord Calad and every other shipmaster in Oth Danesh sails for seven generations looking for those children. I want them found and returned. And if they have been harmed, I shall curse your nation. For all eternity.”

“Please, no.”

“In return,” Ewan continued, “if you do this, I will come with you. After my mission is complete, I will go with you to your land. You shall have your legend explored, as long as it takes. Whatever it takes.”

Toraan was silent for a long while. Eventually, he nodded. His lips moved quickly as if he was reading some inner script. Maybe a prayer.

“I will do it,” he said at last.

“Go now.” Ewan felt a knot tighten in his belly. The urgency he felt intensified, becoming cold panic. Whatever had happened now felt wrong. He had no idea why.

Toraan scrabbled away. “Stay safe, landman. We shall meet again.” He crawled away and vanished behind the curve of the land.

Ewan sat in the dirt, thinking. Somewhere, there finally might be answers.

CHAPTER 39

T
he Autumn Festival in Pain Daye was nothing like the Autumn Festival in Windpoint. James recalled last year’s somber yet pleasant dinner with Celeste, Celeste’s parents, his own mother, and Alexa. They had dined on boar with oranges, a real treat. His betrothed and he had held hands under the table. How young and foolish of him.

It had taken more than two weeks to lug all the provisions from Goden and half a dozen nearby towns and villages for the planned festivities at the estate. This time was going to be different from any other; they had an emperor as a guest. Hundreds of merchants, bankers, investors, lawyers, and just the plain filthy rich from all over Caytor had been invited, with scented invitations written in gold filigree, sent by swift runners to all the major cities in the realm. It was as if nothing else existed in the world, no hardship, no rivalries, no secret assassinations, no threat of war with Parus, no infestation by the Oth Danesh in the south. For one day, Caytor was going to be the cradle of civility.

James was puzzled, clearly out of his depth, but he had kept quiet and let things run their course. For two weeks, the estate buzzed as nameless servants scurried round the clock, tidying, polishing, decorating, arranging things. Old cutlery was replaced with new, untarnished silver. Cooks with crazy ideas were brought in. Marble statues and silk tapestries were added everywhere so everyone could glance at the wealth and beauty of Pain Daye, and more importantly, of the two men who had the honor of sponsoring the event.

Otis and Melville had almost drowned in the celebratory overhead, but that suited James just fine. Less focus meant he had more freedom to roam, explore, conquer hearts, win new allies, and consolidate his power. The Autumn Festival was going to be the singularly most important occasion, as he would meet many new people, silent and remote supporters. In a way, he would have to convince them why their investment would indeed pay off. But he might also get lucky and pluck some fresh fodder into his ranks.

When the sun set on the last day of summer, things turned out to be nothing like he had expected. Not even the long days of casual mingling with the new guests could have prepared him. The opulence, the decadence, the sheer variety of everything, the smells, the dresses, the jewelry, the sea of smiles and polite chuckles, the witty anecdotes, the stories of hunting and business deals, and even some spicy gossip, all delivered as a tidal wave of shock and awe.

All in all, James was convinced he managed well. He never lost composure and kept quiet when he wasn’t quite sure what everyone wanted. Rather than being perceived as slow or ignorant, his cool demeanor was taken as a sign of sharp wisdom. The emperor listened and judged. He wouldn’t spoil the impression, so he kept on listening and judging. Soon, he lost count of the number of courses served or the way things were prepared. He had never imagined sugared monkey brain cubes served with cinnamon sticks to be something he would one day taste. Or snails or sheep balls or all kinds of sea monsters. But the more grotesque the course was, the more excited everyone was.

His journey to the top of the chain of royal food was a long one. He learned and sipped a hundred varieties of wine, all much older than him. Very soon, his judgment became a woolly puddle of soft bewilderment, mellow and fuzzy.

Councillor Sebastian sat at his side, a trusted aide and partner, watching him, guarding him against predators. Xavier’s men were keeping a different kind of watch, most disguised as help or casual guests, mingling in the crowd. Still, every hall and every doorway had a pair of men in shiny armor and flowing cloaks standing honor guard so they could be seen. The future warlord was not present, probably whoring.