The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (62 page)

“You could have let us have our last days together in peace.”

Calemore shrugged. “Not quite, dear. Things are in motion. You are needed at the Womb.”

Elia rubbed her eyes and moved forward. “You don’t understand what love is, do you?”

He waved a hand, retreating some more. “Love? That’s for fools and humans. See what good your love has done.”

Elia knew he meant Damian. The dead human was insignificant to him. “Gods love. We gave our love to our children.” She paused and then added, “But you are crippled.”

Calemore’s face grew taut with a flash of anger. “I’m perfect.”

She drew strength from his sudden loss of composure. She stepped closer. “You are a cripple.”

He lashed out. The slap connected, hard. She spun and tumbled to the ground.

“You will never be a god, never!” she rasped, spitting blood.

“The mother I never had. I thought mothers wanted what was best for their children.” He gripped her upper arm and yanked her up. She swayed, but managed to stand. “Enough talking, we’re done here. Your fool human chose pride over life. Not my fault. Now, we must be under way. There’s a long journey ahead.”

Elia touched her broken lip. “Such weakness.”

Calemore dragged her away from the little farm, heading uphill. “I do not wish to kill you, but I sure can make you regret those stupid words. Keep your mouth shut.”

Elia laughed suddenly.

Shocked, Calemore released his grip. He stared at her carefully, not quite sure what to make of her outburst. This was no fun at all.

“I’m no longer a goddess, you pathetic fool,” she said, sobbing and laughing bitterly at the same time.

The White Witch quickly suppressed a frown of doubt that gripped him. “Yes, you are.”

Elia brushed away more blood from her mouth. “I’m not a goddess anymore.”

Calemore was silent. He remembered Elia well. She was not prone to lying. So, if she believed she was no longer divine, it meant she believed it. But that stood against all the evidence he had. She might be a forgotten goddess, but she was one nonetheless.

“Not for me to decide,” he said gruffly.

“You’re still Damian’s toy, aren’t you? He’s using you again.”

“Shut up,” he warned.

“Will you strike me again?” she taunted, bracing herself.

Calemore gritted his teeth. “No, but if you don’t start showing me proper courtesy, I will go to your school and skin all those children alive.” That did shut her up. She paled, lost her bubble of bravado, and became small and sad once more.

“Damian is using you,” she repeated after a long while, relentless.

They reached a small copse of spruce trees where two horses waited, tethered to a branch. Calemore said nothing while he checked the straps on the saddles. He had not expected even a slightest doubt to take root in his soul at this point. And yet, somehow, this frail woman had managed to infect him with her poison. He didn’t want to believe her, but he would be a fool to disregard her words, no matter how self-deluding they might be. She claimed she was no longer divine. He might be inclined to believe her, but then this whole hunt would be pointless. Well, Damian had claimed the same thing, which made it all the more suspicious.

For the briefest moment, he feared there was a trap here, a pact between the goddess and his father. Perhaps he should try to kill her. No, the risk was too great. He could not let a moment of doubt destroy an age of careful planning. He would not let trickery ruin him.

It also meant he would have to make sure Damian did not double-cross him at the final hour. So he would have to prepare a secondary plan, one that made sure the old fart didn’t back out from his end of the bargain.
What are you up to, you ancient bastard?

“You can ride?” he asked, suppressing the bad thoughts.

Elia carefully saddled up, pain etched in her soft face.

He mounted his own horse, a large white animal. “Remember, anytime you insult me, I’m gonna murder some innocent soul. A baby, preferably.”

“I feel sad for you,” she said in a soft, compassionate tone.

“Goddess or no, you’re coming with me,” he said, going back to the one thing that nagged him. “I’m eagerly waiting to see how you two lovebirds will get along after so many centuries. It will be interesting.”

Elia briefly summoned the memory of Damian. All she saw was a self-deluded little husk of a god haunted by greed and cowardice. And at his side rode this emotional cripple, a megalomaniac who wanted to be something he wasn’t. She felt sad for both of them.

“Move,” Calemore ordered and headed south and east, toward the Womb.

CHAPTER 38

A
s Ewan had expected, things only got worse. The strained relations between Constance and Doris intensified. They hardly spoke to each other, and when forced to share meals or a bed, they did it with all the grace of spoiled children squabbling over honey cakes. Constance seemed afraid of the councillor for some reason. Ewan could only suspect it had to do with her past, maybe her life in Eybalen. But the capital was weeks away from Monard. What could they possibly have in common? Still, she never tried to leave. She followed. Her dogged persistence was worrying. Why, he wondered. What was she hoping to achieve? He never got the answer.

Doris was more energetic than before. Time dulled her pain, even if it could never heal it. And now she had a cause to live for. She was looking forward to a confrontation with the Parusite king with suicidal ambition. Ewan often thought of what she might be going through, sadness gripping him. Losing your family, fleeing like a coward, living with your choices. Could you judge a person for doing that?

When not busy sulking or trying to escape the female scrutiny of her companion, Constance seemed to enjoy her time among the Parusite soldiers. An entirely male company, long distanced from their wives, they were enamored with the foreign girl in their midst. Ewan tried to warn her against them, knowing all too well they were just thugs in uniforms, but she did not listen. She seemed to have forgotten her near death in Eybalen, when Ewan would have expected her to be wary of men. And she also seemed angry with him since Naro. He was confused and could not really understand why.

What more, he felt a pang of jealousy whenever he saw her talking to other men. His life among the dockworkers, his brief and stupid affair with Vicky, the timeless existence in the Abyss, they all should have hardened him against the foolishness of infatuation, but he just couldn’t help it. Ewan often recalled the intimate moment they had shared in Shurbalen.

It must have meant something.

On top of caring for everyone but himself, he now also had a host of Parusites to worry about. While they were essentially the same bunch like his dockworker friends from the port, they hailed from a different culture. They spoke the same language, but there were subtle nuances in their speech and manners. Ewan was very careful around them, knowing that he might accidentally provoke them with a misspoken phrase or gesture. He did not want to have to fight them. Or explain how a scrawny kid could defeat a band of grizzled knights with his bare hands.

But even he could not maintain his guard all the time. After two days on the road, he warmed up to their coarse presence somewhat. As always, he thought of Ayrton. These men had the same rugged behavior, but they were nothing like him in spirit. Ayrton was a gentle and compassionate man. These soldiers were simple thugs. They shared their jokes and meals with him. He laughed politely when expected, but he did not trust them.

Their progress was slow, much to his dismay. It rained often. The roads were a muck soup. Luckily, he experienced no debilitating agonies like before. The swirling emptiness in his gut blobbed like boiling mud, but there was nothing he could do.

On the third day, a man called Vanya asked him if he could fight with a blade. Ewan was not sure how skilled he was supposed to be, pretending to be an important Caytorean, but he decided not to lie and have to prove it. So, he answered truthfully. In return, the Parusite amicably offered to teach him basic swordsmanship. They still had more than a week of travel ahead, so this could be a good exercise for him.

In the evenings, hiding under oiled tarp and listening to sleet hammering on the canvas, the soldiers played all kinds of rough, violent games. They lit their farts and played flap-dragon and tried to cheat in a game of cards. Ewan never challenged their ruses and tricks, but he never let them make a complete fool out of him. After these bonding sessions, he would retire to his tent, which he shared with Doris and Constance. Doris didn’t want anything to do with the Parusites. Constance, for all her flirting during daylight, kept apart from the men at night. It didn’t lessen his pangs of jealousy, though.

Doris was at her worst in the small hours of the night. She would sit by herself, rethinking her terrible choices over and over again, thin tears dripping down the side of her face. Ewan would join her, listening, sharing. Like Constance, Doris was not a believer. She had no deities to confide in or blame for her loss. Life was just a jumble of hard facts to her. Sometimes, Ewan read her some of his religious texts. They probably meant little to her as an unbeliever, but sometimes even the hazy allegories and old tales made her smile or reflect on her conviction.

Ewan felt himself growing closer to her, despite the age and class difference. He was an orphan, maybe a bastard, a child. She was a grown woman, a mother, a powerful political figure. And yet, he realized they had a lot in common. It wasn’t his habit to fancy older women, but he could not quite erase her from his mind.

Each morning, he rose from his pretense of sleep with cold dread in his stomach, wondering what the next day would bring. He had a mental map of southern Athesia etched in his brain, and he tried to envision their journey. Somewhere to the north and east were the Bakler Hills, a scene of a famous battle in the last war. Farther still, the Safe Territories lay, and his destination. But they were heading toward Roalas, the besieged capital of the newborn empire, hoping to petition the Parusite ruler, following in the tracks of the huge invasion force that had stormed this land.

Ewan hated the delay.

Going back after meeting with King Sergei would take even longer. The days were becoming shorter, and the weather would worsen. His biggest burden was the two women. But what could he do?

He contemplated telling them to leave him, but then what? They would be at the mercy of Parusite soldiers, bored, arrogant, incensed by their slew of victories. Southern Athesia was healing slowly, recovering from the pillage, but it was still a ravaged, war-torn country.

The roadside was littered with abandoned wagons and dead bodies of stragglers and refugees. Trees hung with traitors and supposed traitors. Villages stood abandoned, burned to the ground, their buildings empty black husks. The Parusite regiments rode freely, taking anything they wanted despite a royal decree that was supposed to protect the small folk, but it was all done in the name of the king. The winter would see tens of thousands starve as the proud citizens of a new realm.

Ewan tried to gather as much information as he could. Soldiers gossiped wildly, but it was hard to separate truth from sheer bravado. In Caytor, a war was brewing. The Parusites braced for the day the High Council of Trade united its forces and launched an angry counterattack. And yet, caravans still traveled, peddling their goods to whoever offered gold. On their side, the invaders tried to mitigate the disaster by starting yet another war of their own, against the Oth Danesh. But if the show of force was supposed to impress the pirates, it did not. They were content to pick the rich Caytorean cities to the bone, and they did not fancy leaving so soon.