The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (70 page)

“Why?” Ewan said quietly.

“To discuss your terms before I leave for the city,” the count said simply.

Doris seemed to be on the verge of crying. Gently, under the desk, Ewan reached for and squeezed her hand, offering what little support he could. Ewan had no idea what the man was talking about, but he was not going to divulge his ignorance.

“What do you mean, sir?” he probed carefully.

Bart pursed his lips and puffed loudly. “Are you not here to discuss the release of the Caytorean hostages?”

“I am here to demand the release of my daughters,” Doris whispered through gritted teeth. Tears budded in the corners of her eyes.

Bart leaned back, confused. “Tell me more,” he said after a while. Doris started crying.

Ewan stared hard at the Eracian, wondering. Was this some kind of ploy? Was this man working for the Parusite king as an interrogator, trying to weed out sympathy and information?

But all he saw was simple, pure defiance and blank honesty. That look would have fitted any of his dock friends perfectly, a face with a single purpose in life. Ewan wished he knew what that purpose was. He would have to share first before he learned anything.

So he took the lead and told their story, slowly, carefully, what few details he dared divulge, mindful of the conflicting interests between the Parusites and Eracians. He didn’t feel like a politician, but his instincts steered him through a vague, sparse tale that omitted more than it gave. He told nothing of Constance and her ordeal in the capital, nothing of his own terrible burden. His heart skipped a beat when he gargled his assumed identity and that of Constance, but the count said nothing.

Bart listened carefully, his intelligent eyes shifting left and right, weighing the three strangers. His gaze would often linger longest on Constance, who had so far spoken not a word. Then, he relaxed and told them his story, the six months of warfare they had mostly missed. He shared his perspective on things.

Quickly, Ewan realized this man was not their enemy.

He was not their friend, either.

It seemed the count was not in league with the Parusite king. Like themselves, he was a man in a place he did not wish to be, without a choice. Ewan wanted to believe him, but his guard was up, and he just couldn’t sweat the blobs of trust the other man expected. Instead, Ewan kept quiet, reserved, judging, wondering.

One thing was sure, whatever purpose or higher cause guided this man, he was not going to let an opportunity to meet with a Caytorean councillor slip through his fingers.

Ewan started to worry. His knowledge of how members of the High Council and their family behaved was nonexistent.

Seemingly oblivious, Bart spared no detail. He told them everything he knew, the rush to conquer the city, the Pum’be assassinations, the daring night battles, the Autumn Festival kidnapping, the feud with the Oth Danesh. Ewan felt naked against the onslaught of news. And alarmed.

“I will be going to meet with the Athesian empress in a few days. My mission is to secure the release of Eracian dignitaries. But there might be more I could do.”

Ewan sensed the opportunity—or was it a trap? Doris was too shocked to notice. She just sat there, emotionally exhausted. For weeks, she had built up her resolve, preparing for a duel with the Parusite king. And now that it would never come, she felt drained, defeated.

Ewan cursed his bad luck. He had hoped to depart as soon as Doris parlayed with King Sergei, but apparently, he would have to stay with Doris several more days and keep enduring the tingling pain in his muscles. What he did not know was what to do with Constance. She could not follow him where he had to go. But he could not just leave her, either.

“We must consider your offer. Thank you,” he mumbled.

Bart just nodded. The Eracian did not press with his questions. He knew he would have an opportunity to ask more later.

There was little else to say, so they left.

The little clearing where Bart lived was occupied by his Eracian retinue and a handful of Parusite soldiers protecting them. Ewan was given a tent in the far row, which he was told to share with the two women.

Early dawn saw him lying on the cold ground, listening to the wind howling through the slits in the tent canvas. Both his charges were asleep, curled in woolen blankets, each on her own cot. Ewan decided he had pretended enough sleep and left the small shelter.

Outside, the world was black and white and shimmering with predawn light. It promised to be a clear, cloudless day after weeks of torrents. Eracian and Parusite soldiers alike stood guard, swathed in furs, with gloves and cowls to keep the frost at bay. Snow would not come for another month or so, but it was already freezing.

“You are the Caytorean lord, aren’t you?” someone whispered at his side. “Smoke?”

Ewan politely declined. He tried to see the face inside the hood. It was a woman, young, skinny, with sharp, pinched features.

“Corporal Kacey, sir,” the bundle introduced itself.

“Ewan,” he said simply.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked him.

With panic, he realized he was only wearing a thin linen tunic. He cursed his lapse of concentration. He should have been more careful.

“I’m used to harsh winters,” he said. He hoped the drowsy sentry wouldn’t question his lies.

She did not, but his presence attracted attention. Several more soldiers approached, all bored, yearning for anything to help them pass their shift. Ewan felt trapped.

“To your posts,” a voice commanded, relieving him. Count Bart, dressed just as lightly as he, approached, puffing on something thin and black. Gray smoke curled through his beard. He looked eerie. “Have a grudge against the world, I see, Lord Ewan,” the count said.

Ewan shrugged. When you had nothing wise to say, you kept your mouth shut. Ayrton had taught him that.

“I know you are not a Caytorean noble,” he said simply, deliberately avoiding the pained expression on Ewan’s face. “I know that young woman is not your sister.”

“How?” he asked at length.

“Because she told me she came from Eybalen. You hail from Monard. And your accent is all wrong.”

Ewan feigned innocence. But he felt a bubble of anger rise in his throat. He should have kept an eye on Constance. “My accent?”

Bart smiled. “No one else would notice that. But you speak like them, the Parusites. You must be coming from the Safe Territories. Now, I’m trying to guess whether you’re an assassin or a fool or something else entirely.”

There was no point lying about his identity, Ewan realized. It would only anger the man. “I am here to help Councillor Doris find her children.”
“Stick to the truth when you can,”
Ayrton had told him.

The count flicked the leftover of his cigarette far away. It trailed orange sparks and landed in a half-frozen horse piss puddle. “King Sergei had already ordered all Caytorean captives taken by the pirates released, but you know that. If Doris’s daughters are among the living, they will be returned.” He did not need to say how slim that chance was. “But why are
you
here?”

Ewan sighed. “My business has nothing to do with the Parusites, nor Eracians, nor Caytoreans.”

That seemed to satisfy the count. “We will talk later.” The man shivered and started to depart.

Ewan seemed to understand what the man had meant earlier about the grudge. “Aren’t you cold, sir?”

Bart grimaced. “Very much so, but so far, I’m winning.” He hopped away, trying to warm himself.

Later that day, he saw Constance chatting to Count Bartholomew again. She seemed at ease, all smiles and curtsies and flirting, as if she were not half the world away from home, surrounded by thousands of killers who could become her enemies at any moment. He realized he should not let her be alone with the Eracian. She had already betrayed vital information to him. Who knew what else she might tell. But if he tried dragging her away, it would make him all the more suspicious.

So he resorted to the one thing that was always in abundance—waiting. Hour by hour, his anxiety grew. He felt an invisible current of icy heat tug at him from the west, pulling, luring, enticing. The presence of living energy was almost palpable in the air.

He should leave. He had to do it. But he could not bring himself to part from the two women. There was something stopping him. Maybe because he still thought they needed him. Maybe it was his need to have people depend on him, maybe confusion. Perhaps it was affection. Ewan could not forget that one lovemaking with Constance. It had changed him. And Doris…it was complicated.

Days passed. Count Bart took his time leaving for Roalas. Ewan was furious, desperate, helpless, but there was nothing he could do. He had promised to help Doris, and he could not break that promise.

Ewan spent his time studying the Eracians and the Parusites, learning about their habits and ideals. Deep down, they were no different from their neighbors. All people wanted simple things in life. War was just something that happened and had to be endured. Their dispassionate lack of hate was unnerving. Killing people was just business.

In rare moments of sadness, Ewan remembered his old god almost like a guilty aftershock, the one friend you remembered only when someone asked you to name too many. Lar was a distant shadow, a frail and forgotten ghost. Once, Ewan had found calmness and reason in prayer. Lately, when he did join the invading army soldiers for a morning or evening service, the words of worship felt empty, meaningless.

He felt it was mostly the change in his heart, but there was something else, the tingling in his stomach. It wasn’t just the dulling of his soul.

Count Bart provided him with much entertainment and intrigue. He spent his days mingling with soldiers, something that most noble people avoided. And yet, he felt at ease around the armed men, both his countrymen and his hosts, chatting, eating, joking, sharing in their pain and joy. Constance was around him all the time. They seemed inseparable.

Ewan watched from a distance, enraged, helpless.

Doris never mingled. She kept to herself, some old books, and the anticipation of seeing her girls returned to her. Every morning, she would send a bored Parusite soldier scurrying to their king to return with a simple answer: the king did as the king pleased, they said. And there was nothing else she could do.

Ewan knew this meant there would be no meeting with the king anytime soon.

And then, she would go to the outer camp to await the return of refugees and prisoners freed from the Oth Danesh ships. True to Bart’s words, Sergei was trying to secure the release of the Caytorean people abducted in the pirate raids. The end result was chaos. The pirates hardly knew the names and places where they had taken their captives, so they beached their vessels wherever they could and dumped the few survivors onto the shore. The Parusites tried to help, but few people were willing to go back to their burned villages. Southern Caytor still boiled with raids and pillage.

In the icy rain and whipping winds, the stragglers were marched into temporary camps to await the end of this war. None came their way. The siege camp around Roalas was no place to herd women and children. Only a few elder men arrived, hollow eyed and lost.

But long lists of names did travel. The Parusite clerks did their best to keep record of all the people they had saved, and those they could not. King Sergei wanted to be sure the Caytorean High Council of Trade could appreciate his effort in keeping peace with their realm.

Doris was allowed to peruse the wrinkled swaths, reading names and descriptions. Every day, she went back to her bed weeping, her hope shriveling like an autumn leaf. She never found her girls on one of the lists.

Ewan felt her pain. But there was nothing else he could do.

Another week passed. Constance never left the Eracian’s side. Ewan dared not interfere. He just wondered how much more mercy he had left for everyone but himself. Rain, hail, fog, whipping winds. The roads turned into mire again, and travel almost ceased. Then, one morning, Doris didn’t leave the tent to watch for the arrival of rescue parties and their dreaded lists. Alarmed, Ewan went inside. She was sitting on her cot, rubbing her puffy eyes.