The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (54 page)

She had chosen life.

She had hidden in a cellar while the pirates rampaged through the house, looting, burning. They had taken away her two baby daughters as slaves. Like a coward, she had crawled under a crate and let their screams dwindle. For days, she had stayed there, eating beetroot and drinking expensive wine and sleeping with a cork hammer in her hands, weeping, cursing her choice.

She had survived.

And then she had fled, leaving behind the ruins of her burned home, leaving the corpse of her husband to the flies and rats. She could have stayed and fought, she should have died at his side, she said, but her body would not obey. The urgency to live racked her almost like fever. The only thing she could remember was her hunger for life, her hunger to survive this attack. And the cold realization that she had cursed her soul forever. She had forsaken her babies. She had abandoned them. She had done one thing mothers never did. Not in the vilest of tales.

A week later, she had been captured by the Oth Danesh on the outskirts of the city, where they waited for those who had eluded them just days before and thought themselves safe now.

If not for Ewan, she said, she would have been caged aboard one of their galleys, sailing back to their foreign land. But now that the danger had passed, she couldn’t bear the pain. She wanted to die. She just wanted the suffering to go away.

Ewan could not begin to comprehend the enormity of her loss. What did it feel like to lose your family? What did it feel like to lose your children? He remembered the Feoran attack on his monastery, the day his world shattered. The sense of confusion and terror had been overwhelming, but deep down, he had had Lar to nourish him and guide him. This woman did not even have the consolation of faith, just the stark truth.

What did it feel like to consciously decide you loved yourself more than your own children?

Ewan could only imagine her torment. But he knew the pain was not the worst part. It was the helplessness, the cold white knowledge you couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. Well, she could have. She could have chosen slavery or death. None of those would have saved her family.

“You’re not a coward.” Ewan tried to soothe her, the burden of the entire world weighing on his shoulders. An empty, hollow feeling churned in his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the gods. “Fleeing was the sane thing to do. You can fight now.”

She nodded weakly. Raw survival instincts made you stay alive. They did not make you feel good about it. “I will get my daughters back,” she whispered.

“And I will help you,” he promised. What else could he do?

More days passed. The confession did help a bit. Each day, her pain lessened and her resolve grew, tapering into white-hot rage. Doris never quite forgot the selfish choice she had made, but she vowed to find her daughters and avenge them. Ewan realized it was probably the one way she could cope with her life now. He would help her.

Still, at night, he would listen to her quiet cries, his chest hurting with sorrow. “We must find my daughters. We must find them.” It was almost a litany, a mumble that only ceased when the pain grew too much to bear and she drifted into a gray nightmare of regret and despair.

The pirates shadowed them away from Monard and toward Athesia for almost a week, never quite coming too close, never attacking. They kept true to their word, or perhaps, it was the fear of Ewan’s curse—and retribution. He was glad for the respite, because he was not quite sure he could handle the two women and a horde of brigands at the same time.

He considered confronting them. They might know something about Doris’s girls. But it was a stupid, infantile notion. The Oth Danesh had conducted thousands of raiding parties into Caytor, taking away children from hundreds of nameless villages. Few would know or care where they found their prizes. One slave was just like another, a tiny lump of meat they locked up in a galley cage.

The sight of pirates made Doris wet her dress, but she pretended she didn’t see them. She had withdrawn into a huddle of cold emotion. She kept silent and to herself. And followed. Like Constance, she was chased by her terror and didn’t know what to do. So she trailed the one person who seemed to know what he was doing.

Ewan wished he did.

Nine days since the encounter with the pirate scum, they reached the first inhabited settlement, a village that marked the end of the Caytorean rule and the beginning of the young empire of Athesia. Ewan knew the difference only by the presence of a tiny Parusite garrison holding the land. King Sergei’s banner flew on top of the mill. Not far from it, farmers worked their narrow strips of land, just as they had months and years before.

The West Road snaked south, toward Parus, but Ewan’s mission took him down a dusty path due west. They left the first Athesian village behind, walked past a stone marker bearing city names inscribed on its wind-worn faces, ignored the broken remains of a trader’s cart and the bleached bones of a dead animal—maybe a horse or an ox that had pulled that wagon—that decorated the weedy sides of the track.

A day later, the small town of Naro loomed ahead, a patch of slate roofs and smoke. Here, the quiet emptiness of the Caytorean countryside ravaged by the pirates ended, replaced by the bustle of life and trade. Coming from the seashore, Ewan’s small party had missed the rush of people and convoys going across the land. Maybe for the better, he thought. He did not relish the idea of Constance and Doris meeting bored soldiers.

The people who greeted them were a mix of locals and foreigners. Ewan perked his ears and listened to what they had to share. The country folks had fled the rumor of war and slaughter, but after they learned the Parusite king would not butcher them in cold blood, slowly, warily, they had returned to their abandoned homes and doused hearths and set about rebuilding their lives under a new ruler. Mixed among their lot was a throng of migrants, come with the tide of war.

Southern Athesia was a cauldron of cultures now. Villages and towns were run by Parusite barons and retired captains. The provosts administered economy and law, but in general, they left the Athesians in peace. King Sergei obviously intended to annex Athesia rather than destroy it, and he needed its peasants and craftsmen for after the war. And as far as the common man was concerned, one king or another, it made little difference.

The roads were busy with traffic, army convoys and trade caravans, trains of refugees, peddlers, free riders, war profiteers, and clergy. The Parusites were busy building shrines and temples and repairing damaged property, paving streets with fresh stone, hanging bandits, herding livestock to pasture. Life was trickling back. After the ghostly expanse of western Caytor, this boiling activity alarmed Ewan.

It was drizzling as they neared Naro. The wind was blowing the drops almost horizontally, and they cut under the clothing. Both his female companions looked miserable. His thin cloak was just a pretense to make them feel comfortable. For all he cared, it could have been raining drops of molten iron.

Although it was only midday, Ewan decided they would lodge in the town for at least a day. They needed fresh supplies. His rations had been originally intended for two people, and with Doris joining them for the last two weeks, food was running low. Ewan intended to let the women rest, buy fresh horses, and get proper winter clothing. His stomach roiled with anxiety, but he tried to ignore the nagging sensation.

The fits of bone-deep agony had come several times since, but they had subsided of late. However, his sense of urgency and blind panic did not recede. He felt the silence of pain in his blood was not a good sign. Something terrible was going to happen soon, and he feared he might not be able to prevent it. He should leave Constance and Doris and just run, day and night, without stopping. But he just could not bring himself to do it.

A small party of Parusite cavalry joined by Athesian deserters and mercenaries intercepted them by a small stone bridge. Ewan expected a scuffle, but it turned out the soldiers were looking for Oth Danesh. The king was displeased with his allies, it seemed, and he was actively hunting down the pirate raiding parties. The three of them were let go with only a handful of suspicious looks and as many leers.

They entered the town, every chimney stack holding a spear tied to it, and the Parusite flags flying from them whipping in the rain and wind.

Halfway down the road to the main square, they passed a tree. Several bodies hung from the low branches, swaying in the wind. Constance looked sick. Doris saw nothing. She rode in a stupor, haunted by her own demons.

Ewan wondered what Doris might ultimately try to do. She was a member of the Caytorean High Council and the widow of the late mayor of Monard. There was no state of war between Caytor and Parus, and yet forces fighting under the Parusite banner had butchered her family. The woman might decide to take up the matter with the local garrison commander. Ewan was not sure how her protest would be accepted. The Parusites might decide they were better off silencing a displeased Caytorean than worrying their king with yet more bad news of war and pillage by their allies. He feared her choice. But there was little he could do. He had saved the woman’s life. He could not abandon her now. Ayrton would never let the weak suffer.

There was only one inn in Naro, and all of its rooms were booked. However, extra gold quickly vacated one and even secured stalls for their horses.

Ewan decided the two women needed some privacy. He had seen them both naked, but not at the same time. Somehow, he knew his presence would make things worse. He told them to remain in their room and bolt the door firmly. Constance remembered the secret knock. Just before he left, he made sure Doris could use the knife.

He left, thinking about his lovemaking with Constance in Shurbalen. The girl had not approached him since, and he dreaded making any advances. He did not want her to think he was trying to take advantage of her. But he yearned for her touch, yearned for some kind of relationship, friendship, anything. He truly had no one in this world anymore.

A weary, filthy traveler drew little attention in a town infested with foreigners. There were few people outside in the icy rain, but the shops were bustling with commerce. The Parusites were arguing with the locals over prices and ideology, coming to terms with their tenacious legacy. Ewan remembered the last time he had traveled through this region, this land had belonged to Caytor. He could still hardly believe eighteen years had marched past, while he had not aged one bit.

There were lots of armed people everywhere. He did not like them. Unemployed soldiers were bound to cause trouble sooner or later. And yet, despite the flickering tension, Naro managed without brawls and street fights.

Ewan settled in quickly. His dockyard worker’s manners made him a friendly guest everywhere. In less than an hour, he seemed to know everything about this war. The Parusites were harsh but just. They kept crime in tight check. Any person caught inciting violence was put in stocks or paraded naked through the town. Men lost arms and tongues for stealing and befouling the king or the gods. The sharp blade of the law extended to spies and all sorts of troublemakers. Bodies swayed from trees in orchards and from rusty drains, a reminder of the blade’s sharp edge. Naturally, people abused the situation to settle old scores and feuds. Religion was coming back into the lives of the Athesians, after an age of neglect. Morning and evening prayers were mandatory. People grumbled, but not enough to get their heads lopped off.

He made a few purchases and headed back to the inn. He knocked. Doris opened, holding a thin poniard in her hand. She put the knife away. Ewan laid the bag of tools and clothes on the floor.

Doris watched him intently. Her big eyes were wet with tears. “I’m okay,” she said.

Ewan nodded, uncomfortable. What kind of solace could he offer a woman who had lost her family? What could he tell her that would make a difference? She pretended to be strong, she tried to believe in her pretense, but in the small hours of the night, her resolve shattered. The intimacy of those painful, bleak moments shamed him. In the morning, her pain-wreathed face promised fresh vigor, but the sadness never quite went away.