The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (31 page)

Constance pulled him close. He followed. She sat on the bed and inched backward. He eased himself near her, watching her, trying to understand what was happening. He didn’t dare say anything. She leaned back. She waited.

Like a man possessed, he saw his arms respond to his need. He undressed slowly. He was breathing hard, through his nostrils. Blood pounded in his temples. He could feel the blood vessels in his neck throbbing.

“Make love to me,” she whispered. She gestured that he should slide on top of her.

“But your ribs…” he said.

She smiled. “I will be all right.”

Ewan carefully positioned himself above her. She put her injured arm above her head, out of harm’s way.

He had seen her naked before, all bruised and battered. Even now, her body showed faded yellow marks where the last contusions still stubbornly held. But he was seeing her now in a different light. She was a slim, petite thing, but her curves were smooth and soft, and he felt desire engulf him like fire. She had not bathed, but he did not mind. The rank smell of sweat only made him giddier. The wild aroma of raw sex filled the air.

The last time, the only time, he’d had sex was with Maya, a whore. This time, it felt different. It felt right. He did not feel any guilt. And his mind was clear.

Constance watched him without blinking, her eyes teary. He did not understand those tears, but he knew she wanted him. They moved in unison. He tried to be gentle, arching his back as much as he could, away from her ribs. As he neared climax, his motions grew deeper, stronger, more erratic.

She gasped. His vision blackened into a spot of sweet agony. He climaxed in a rush of wildfire. Constance yelped. In the drunken reverie of his orgasm, he realized he was leaning against her, crushing her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he moaned, pushing away.

“It’s all right,” she said, breathing hard.

Ewan lay on his back, savoring the moment. Her smell, mixed with the grime and sweat, made him happy for some reason. Carefree. It was simple, innocent joy.

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

He tried to speak. Instead, he suddenly screamed.

Agony, searing white and sharp like a needle, stabbed him through the gut. His body went rigid with a numbing, debilitating pain, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Ewan saw himself spread-eagle on the bed, wailing at the top of his lungs, his voice diminishing to a hoarse whisper. And still, he could not move. He could not blink. The world became a blur of dazzling, painful white.

Constance clamped her ears shut instinctively and fell off the bed. She scrambled away, blood drained from her face, shivering, crying uncontrollably. Ewan’s body arched, trying to lift off the bed. He looked like some warped statue, chiseled of terror and anguish.

Then, as suddenly as the wave of pain had come, it vanished. He rolled to one side, vomiting from his mouth and nose. He was shaking wildly, but then the tremors subsided. Slowly, carefully, he turned himself over, spitting bile, wiping blood from his nose. Gently, he touched his belly. The skin was clean, intact. Nothing. Just moments earlier, it had felt as if he’d given birth to a cow. There was no better way of imagining it.

After so long without any real physical sensation of pain, this spasm was all the more overwhelming. He had no idea what had just happened. Except for the sudden, deep fatigue and a humiliating sense of surprise, he was all right. He knew there was nothing wrong with him. Even the terrible urge that had burned in his bones was gone.

“Ewan, what happened?” Constance cried.

“I don’t know,” he groaned. “I don’t know.” The roiling, gnawing lump in the pit of his stomach returned suddenly, stronger than before. Ewan realized that something dreadful had just happened. He had to go west. He had to. He had to.

We must leave tomorrow
, he thought. There would be no time to rest.
We. We
. He had to go alone. But what now, after they’d made love? Abandon her?

Constance rose to her feet, nursing her broken arm. She had fallen hard onto the floor. Her lips was quivering. She appeared to be in a mixed state of panic and shock, yet she inched toward him. She came close and hugged him. It was a gentle, friendly hug.

“What just happened, Ewan? Are you okay? Are you feeling all right? What happened?”

He thought he did not know, but as she voiced the simple question, sharp realization crystallized inside his head.
A god has just died
, he thought.
How can I tell her that? She’ll think I’m a lunatic. Or worse, some kind of a monster
. He snorted.
I am a monster
.

“Must be fever, from all the traveling,” he lied.

He hated himself for it, but there was no other way. He could not afford to lose her now. If he told her the truth, she would leave him surely. He did not want to be alone. He did not want to be lonely.

“I should rest now.” He leaned back and pretended to sleep.

CHAPTER 20

“S
pit on my hand,” the woman said.

James cocked his head. “Why?”

The woman groaned, rolling her eyes. “Because that’s how magic works, dummy.”

The future emperor of Athesia kept his face straight, but he smiled on the inside.
Dummy
. After months of being rolled in the dross of dishonesty and intrigue, he adored the simple, informal way his hostess addressed him. It made him feel carefree.

She was called Nigella, an odd name for an odd woman. People in and around her village knew her as a skilled herbalist, but she was a witch. Like Adelbert, she traced her lineage to Sirtai, although you could not tell that from her face, a homely, bespectacled visage and buckteeth. Her physique was slim and firm, but she did not exude the aroma of ripe, sweet enchantment like Rheanna. She felt bland. James was glad for the distraction. The coy games of flirtation were becoming unbearable.

He noticed her impatient look and realized he had not spat yet. He hawked a solid ball and let it dribble onto her extended palm.

Nigella turned from an angry statue into a torrent of quick, jerky gestures. She rolled the spit between her hands, sniffed her fingers, tasted the froth on her pale skin. James watched, utterly fascinated. He knew nothing of magic, but the very moist displays he had seen so far made it look crazy and unhygienic.

“So why are you here?” she asked, shaking her hands above her head, letting the spittle dry.

James shifted his weight; he found sitting on bare ground uncomfortable. “I need help.”

Nigella stopped moving. “What will you give me in return?”

“I didn’t tell you what I need from you yet.”

“No, but you will know what I will give
you
after you tell me.”

James puffed. He desperately needed a political edge. He needed to outwit his benevolent captors. He needed to immerse himself in the maze of sweet talk and lies and deception. He needed to know how to maneuver fast. He needed to know how to win over his foes, leaving them confused and shattered.

And for the first time in months, he realized, he was contemplating violence.

He did not want it, but he could not escape it. Sooner or later, they would corner him and leave him no chance. Kill or be killed, the basic law of the lawless. Like in the woods, when you faced a criminal and you could see in his eyes that he would run no longer. Justice would be sown, right there, in the shadow of a nameless tree.

His head buzzed with filth. Assassinations, threats, plans to outmaneuver and bankrupt the opposition. Behind the perfect smiles and posh talk, the councillors, the bankers, the rich and powerful of Caytor behaved like thugs. They wanted him to fornicate against his will. They wanted him to contract killers against their partners. They wanted him to buy armies and prepare for war. They wanted him to shed blood in the name of…what? The glory of Athesia? Could he cling to that idea?

Was he worthy of ruling a nation? He was just a lawman from a tiny town in northern Eracia. What did he know about the world? What kind of wisdom did he possess? Did he have the right to decree the fate of other people?

But it was not important anymore. No one cared what he truly believed. He was committed to the idea. It was all that mattered. He was the emperor, no matter what anyone else said. It could be a lie, but he was going to defend it to the death. But if he merely mouthed the shit they fed him, he would find himself a nameless corpse one day. He knew that much. He had to turn the odds in his favor.

He wanted a glimpse of the future. He had no idea if this could be done, but Nigella was his best bet. Adelbert had mentioned no one else but her. If there was anyone who might help him survive the coming months and years, it was the bucktoothed woman.

James thought about the man’s price. He had not yet named it, and that worried him a little. And now, the witch.

“What do you want?” he smarted his question.

Nigella smiled. She was not so ugly when he focused. He waited.

“I have a son. He’s apprenticed in a little monastery not far from here. When you come to power, you will take him under your protection and raise him as a lord.”

He blinked.
Son?
She looked roughly his age. Then, you could not really be sure with magic wielders. And Sirtai had a funny streak when it came to how age showed on their skin. But she looked younger than Rheanna.

“And you will kill his father,” she added coldly.

There we go
, he thought. His first blood. “Who is he?”

Nigella restored the smile. “A rich man who would not keep his promises.”

James kept his face perfectly still. Such simple human requests. Who knew what kind of evil lurked in the hearts of men? But if he had to kill, he would do it for himself and not for Otis and Melville.

Looking around the bare shack, he realized the witch woman was poor. Her magic skills were a secret she could not share. She had probably given the child away. He would not ask, he promised himself.

She read his mind, of course. “You don’t start having a child when they don’t expect you to.”

James swallowed. Windpoint had been a popular destination for orphaned bastards. They either came to practice law or practice crime. But they fled their lives where even their mothers could not keep them and pitted their anger against brutal survival.

Her simple demands made him sad. He had expected avarice. He had expected gold.

“Do you promise to keep
your
word?” she asked. It sounded like a threat.

James considered the enormity of his pledge. Across Caytor, his rivals were coming to life, one after another, a tale of lies that would soon be as truthful as any other. One of the impostors had already hanged, after overstepping his authority, but that did not lessen the claim or risk of all the rest.

He had no friends in Pain Daye; he had no one he could trust. He was surrounded by hypocrisy. His future was dark and uncertain, and all he could see was bloodthirsty enemies growing in number, encircling him, waiting for him to drop his guard so they could pounce. He wasn’t even sure he would live to see this future, and that thought fueled him with righteous anger. People wanted him dead, people wanted to manipulate and use him, and all they cared for was the title he bore. His own life was cheap and expendable. No one cared about James. They wanted the emperor.

This witch wanted him to promise something so trivial, and yet so dismaying and complex. A bittersweet revenge at the end of a long journey, so long that things and ideals he’d started with would be meaningless afterward. Then again, it meant that if he lived to see his promise kept, it meant he would live. Well, the old James could still pack his bags and flee, go back to Windpoint, and vanish forever. But he would not go back; he could not go back.

“I promise,” he said.

Nigella was jerky gestures all over again. “You will get help from me.” She rose and walked over to the corner of her singleroom home. By her simple straw pallet, a handful of bags lay, tied with a cord. On top of one, a cat slept. She reached behind the bags, dislodging the animal, which simply slid off without much protest.

She came back with a simple wooden cup and a bone needle. “Extend your arm.”

James did not like the sight of the sharp thing in her hand. But he obeyed. Faster than a snake, she slammed the needle into his forearm, drawing a drop of blood. She leaned over and licked it. It happened before he could blink.

“Your blood says a lot,” she whispered. “But you need political advice before you need a divination. Luckily, I’ve had eight years to study the art of politics.” She could not hide the bitter poison from her voice.

“You need three things. You need a friend, you need a partner, and you need a butcher. Hopefully, they will be three different people.”

James was a little confused, but he waited.

“You need someone you can trust. Otherwise you’re doomed.”

He thought of Rheanna. Yes. No. Maybe.

“You need a powerful partner who will share your goal. Find one. Or create one. But you will have to figure out who among the vultures will peck from your hand. Finally, you need someone to do your dirty work.”